Ai 


5232 


LIBRARY 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

SANTA  BARBARA 


i 


PRESENTED  BY 

MRS.  WILLIAM  ASHWORTH 


lAjT-t^Ls/^CLsrrHf^ 


^ 


VilliahVarren 


Pi 


EDITION  • 

OFSTANDARDPLAYS 


WALTER  W  .BAKER  ^  CO. 

N2J  •  HANILTOM  •  PLACE 

BOSTON 


a.  W.  ^tnero's  Paps 


THF   AMAZONS    r'arce  in  Three  Acts.    Seven  males,  five  females. 
Costumes,  modern  ;  scenery,  not  dlflicult.    Plays 
a  full  evening. 

THF  CARINFT  IWINISTFR    ^''^^ce  in  Four  Acts.    Ten  males,  nine 
females.   Costumes,  modern  society  ; 
scenery,  three  interiors.    Plays  a  full  evening. 

DANDY  DIGIT    ^i'"*'®  •"  Three  Acts.    Seven  males,  four  females. 
Costumes,  modern  ;  scenery,  two  interiors.    Plays 
two  hours  and  a  half. 

THF  fiAY  I  ORD  flIlFX    comedy  in  Four  Acts.    Four  males,  ten 
"  females.    Costumes,  modern  ;  scenery, 

two  interiors  and  an  exterior.    Plays  a  full  evening. 

HIS  HOIISF  IN  ORDFR    comedy  in  Four  Acts.    Nine  males,  four 
females.    Costumes,  modern  ;  scenery, 
three  interiors.     Plays  a  full  evening. 

THF  HORRY  HORSF    comedy  in  Three  Acts.    Ten  males,  five 
females.  Costumes,  modern;  scenery  easy. 
Plays  two  hours  and  a  half. 

IRIS    Drama  in  Five  Acts.    Seven  males,  seven  females.    Costumes, 
modern  ;  scenery,  thre«  interiors.    Plays  a  full  evening. 

I  ADY  ROIINTIFIII     ^^^^"  ^^  Four  Acts.    Eight  males,  seven  fe- 

vn  1  u    jij^jgg     Costumes,  modern  ;  scenery,  four  in- 

teriors, not  easy.    Plays  a  full  evening. 

I  FTTY    Drama  in  Four  Acts  and  an  Epilogue.    Ten  males,  five  fe- 
^  males.    Costumes,  modern  ;  scenery  complicated.    Plays  a 

full  evening. 


Sent  prepaid  on  receipt  of  price  by 
No.  5  Hamilton  Place, 


CASTE 


An  Original  Comedy  in  Three  Acts 


By 
T.  W.  ROBERTSON 


Reprinted  from  the  acting  book  used  in  the  performances  of 
the  famous  Boston  Museum  Company,  by  the  courtesy  of  the 
late  Annie  M.  Clarke,  for  many  years  its  leading  lady. 


Copyright,  1913,  by  Walter  H.  Baker  &  Co. 


BOSTON 

WALTER  H.  BAKER  &  CO 
1913 


LIBRARY 

UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 

SANTA  BARBARA 


CASTE 


CHARACTERS 


(First  production,  Prince  of  fVales^   Theatre,  London,  April  6,  186'/.) 

George  D'Alroy Frederick  Ymmge. 

Captain  Hawtree S.  B.  Bancroft. 

EcCLES George  Honey. 

Sam  Gerridge yo/in  Hare. 

Marquise  de  St.  Maur Sophia  Larkins. 

Esther  Eccles Lydia  Foote. 

Polly  Eccles Marie  Wilton. 

(First  production  in  the  United  States,  Old  Broadivay  Theatre,  August  J,  l86y.) 

Hon.  Geo.  D'Alroy W.  J.  Florence . 


Captain  Hawtree 
Eccles  .... 
Sam  Gerridge 
Esther  Eccles  . 
Polly  Eccles  ,  . 
Marquise  de  St.  Maur 


Owen  Marlowe. 

William  Davidge. 

.    Edzvard  Lamb. 

Henrietta  Chanfrau. 

Mrs.  W.  y.  Florence. 

Mrs.  G.  H.  Gilbert. 


"{^First  production   in    Boston,  Hoivard  Athenaum,  September  2,  l86y.) 

Hon.  George  D'Alroy H.  G.  Clarke. 

Captain  "Hawtjiee Harry  Crisp. 

'Eccles Mr.  Keeler. 

Sam  Gerridge     .     ,     .     .' Mr.  Scallan. 

Marquise  de  St.  Maur Mrs.  Farren. 

Esther  Ecclks Cecile  Rush. 

Polly  Eccles Lillie  Marden. 

(First  production  at  The  Boston  Museum,  September  22,  i86y.) 


Hon.  George  D'Alroy 
Captain  Hawtree    . 

Eccles    

Sam  Gerridge  .  .  . 
Esther  Eccles  .  . 
Polly  Eccles  .  .  . 
Marquise  de  St.  Maur 


Z.  R.  Shewell. 
.     .  J.  A.  Sjnith. 
William  Warren. 
.     .    J.H.  Ring. 
Annie  Clarke. 
Louisa  Meyers. 
Mrs.  E.  L.  Davenport. 


CHARACTERS 

[Wallack's  Theatre^  New  York,  N.   T.,  No-vember  8,  1873.) 

Hon.  George  D'Alroy      ....      H.  J.  Montague. 

Captain  Hawtree C.  A,  Stcvcns.071. 

ECCLES George  HoJiey. 

Sam  Gerridge E.  M.  Holland. 

Esther  Eccles Ada  Dyas. 

Polly  Eccles Effie  Germon. 

Marquise  de  St.  Maur Mme.  Pontsi. 

{^Gluhe  Theatre,  Boston,  Mass.,  No-vemher  S,  iS^j.) 

Hon.  George  D'Alroy      ....     yohn  C.  Cowper. 

Caftain  Hawtree Owen  Marloive. 

Eccles George  Honey. 

Sam  Gerridge J.  H.  Burnett. 

Esther  Eccles Katherme  Rogers. 

Polly  Eccles Lilltaji  Conivay. 

Marquise  de  St.  Maur    .     .     .    Clara  Fisher  Maeder. 

{JVallack-s  Theatre,  New  York,  N.   T.,  October,  iSSg.) 

Hon.  George  D'Alroy Osmond  Tearle. 

Captain  Hawtree E.  D.  Ward. 

Eccles Charles  Graves. 

Sam  Gerridge Tom  Robertson. 

Esther  Eccles Rose  Coghlan. 

Polly  Eccles Florence  Girard. 

Marquise  de  St.  Maur Mme.  Ponisi. 

{Garrick    Theatre,  London,  February  j,  rSg^.) 

Hon.  George  D'Alroy Forbes  Robertson. 

Captain  Hawtree .  W.  L.  Abington. 

Eccles G.  W.  Anson. 

Marquise  de  St.  Maur Rose  Leclercq. 

Esther  Eccles Kate  Rorke. 

Polly  Eccles May  Harvey. 

Sam  Gerridge Gilbert  Hare. 

{Grand    Theatre,    London,    October    i6,    /Sg6,   Knickerbocker    Theatre, 

Neiv  York,  yanuary  iS,  iSgj,  and  Tremont  Theatre, 

Boston,  March  2,  iSgj.) 

Hon.   George  D'Alroy Frank  Gilmore. 

Captain  Hawtree Frederick  Kerr. 

Eccles John  Hare, 

Sam    Gerridge Gilbert  Hare. 

Marquise  de  St.  Maur Susie  Vaughan. 

Esther  Eccles Mona  K  Oram. 

Polly  Eccles May  Harvey. 


PREFACE 


Of  all  the  Robertson  dramas  probably  "  Caste  "  took  the  most 
decided  hold  on  popular  favor.  Its  sentimental  story,  its  strongly 
drawn  characters  which  allowed  to  half-a-dozen  actors  equally 
good  opportunities  in  very  different  lines  of  business  gave  it  an  in- 
stant success. 

It  is  doubtful  if  any  other  modern  play  was  so  many  times  per- 
formed and  in  so  many  different  theatres  within  a  year  as  was 
"Caste."  At  the  time  of  its  production  there  was  not  only  no  in- 
ternational copyright  ;  there  was  no  protection  for  a  play  of  any 
sort,  so  that  as  soon  as  it  had  been  played  in  London  it  was  the 
property  in  fact,  if  not  in  honor,  of  any  manager  who  would  bother 
to  take  it. 

"  Caste"  was  first  produced  at  the  famous  Prince  of  Wales' 
Theatre  in  the  Tottenham  Court  Road,  London,  April  6,  1867, 
during  the  regime  of  the  Bancrofts.  Lester  Wallack  secured  the 
manuscript  of  the  play  from  the  Bancrofts  and  prepared  to  produce 
it  in  New  York  in  the  following  September.  But  he  was  antici- 
pated in  tliis  production  by  W.  J.  Florence,  who  had  committed 
the  play  to  memory  in  London,  and  got  it  on  the  stage  at  the 
Broadway  Theatre,  then  in  Broome  Street,  August  5,  1867,  the 
Wallack  production  being  made  in  Brooklyn,  September  2. 
Wallack's  attempt  to  protect  his  prior  rights  by  suit  is  a  matter  of 
history,  the  defeat  of  that  manager  and  the  legal  triumph  of 
Florence  not  speaking  very  well  for  the  honor  of  the  courts  of  that 
time. 

No  sooner  was  "  Caste  "  successfully  given  in  New  York  than  it 
sprang  into  popularity  everywhere.  That  was  the  time  of  the  stock 
company,  and  the  traveling  company  was  practically  unknown. 
Within  the  month  of  September,  for  example,  the  piece  was  played 
on  four  different  stages  in  the  city  of  Boston. 

All  through  the  sixties  and  seventies  the  piece  continued  a  popu- 
lar play,  but  with  the  disappearance  of  the  stock  company,  it 
dropped  out  of  sight  until  the  popular  English  comedian,  John 
Hare,  who  had  created  the  role  of  Sam  Gerridge,  when  the  play  was 
first  produced  in  London,  revived  it  during  his  tour  of  the  States  in 
1896-97. 

Probably  the  best  Eccles  that  the  American  public  has  known 
was  George  Honey,  who  created  the  role  in  London  and  after- 
wards was  seen  in  this  country  for  several  seasons  in  the  same 


6  PREFACE 

part.  Next  to  him  in  point  of  genuine  humor  was  the  Eccles  of 
William  Warren  of  the  Museum.  Mr.  Honey  had  the  advantage 
of  Warren  in  knowing  the  type  better.  But  the  performances  of 
both  these  men  in  this  part  will  be  remembered  always  with  keen 
relish  by  all  who  were  so  lucky  as  to  see  them. 

"Caste"  has  been  called  by  those  who  wish  to  put  a  httle 
contempt  on  it  "a  cup  and  saucer"  drama.  But  as  a  play  it  will 
always  remain  a  model  of  its  kind.  It  is  terse,  well  constructed, 
with  capital  acting  opportunities,  and  absolutely  no  halt  in  its 
movement  and  interest.  If  it  be  in  any  sense  really  a  "  cup  and 
saucer  drama,"  it  is  a  pity  that  some  modern  writers  do  not  catch 
the  trick. 

The  present  edition  is  carefully  compiled  from  the  prompt  book 
in  use  at  the  Boston  Museum  where  the  play  enjoyed  one  of  its 
most  pronounced  successes.  Business,  stage  positions  and  the  few 
traditional  interpolations  are  preserved  exactly  as  employed  in  that 
famous  play  house.  In  elaborating  the  business  of  the  third  act 
in  the  scene  in  which  D'Alroy  returns  the  description  given  by 
Mrs.  Bancroft — the  original  Polly  Eccles — in  "On  and  Off  the 
Stage  "  has  been  carefully  followed. 

M.  A. 
Boston,  December,  igi2. 


PROPERTIES 

Act  I. — Key  ready  at  R.  3  e.  Letters  for  postman.  Box  with 
ballet  dress.  Rasher  of  bacon  and  other  packages  for  Polly, 
Cigar  case  for  Hawtree.  Teakettle  on  hob  of  fireplace.  Letters 
for  Esther  in  pocket  of  gown.     Coins  for  George  to  give  Eccles. 

Act  II. — Cigarettes  for  George.  Parasol  for  Polly.  Decanter 
of  claret  and  brandy  and  glass  for  Eccles  on  sideboard  of  inner 
room. 

Act  III. — Box  with  ballet  dress.  Slate  and  pencil  on  table. 
Bundle  of  circulars  in  Sam's  pocket.  Coin  in  Polly's  pocket. 
Coral  in  baby's  cradle.  Wine  bottle  for  Eccles.  Letter  and 
check  for  Esther.  Deal  table  at  R.  3  E.  for  Sam.  Ring  for  Sam. 
Baby's  cloak  and  cap  for  Marquise.     Sample  of  wall  paper. 


CASTE 


ACT  I 

Scene. — Home  of  the  Eccles.  Living-room  in  ground-floor 
apartment  at  Stangate.  Large  zvindoiv  with  deep  seat 
at  c,  back,  overlooking  street.  Door  r.  3  e.  into  hall, 
giving  view  of  outer  door  when  open.  Door  at  R.  i  E.  to 
kitchen.  Fireplace  at  1,.,  zuith  mantel  over  it.  Fire  laid 
ready  to  light.  At  l.  c.  table  with  cover.  Large  chair 
at  R.  of  it;  tivo  small  chairs  at  i^.  of  it.  Against  back 
drop,  at  L.  of  window,  dresser  covered  with  dishes. 
Bureau  against  wall  r.,  betwee?i  doors. 

LIGHTS  fwll  up. 

(As  curtain  rises  slowly  on  empty  stage  George  D'Alroy  and 
Captain  Hawtree  are  seen  to  pass  window  from  l. 
Handle  of  door  r.  3  e.  is  tried,  and  voices  heard  outside. 
Key  then  heard  to  turn  in  lock.) 

Geo.  (opening  door  r.  3  e.  and  entering,  followed  by 
Hawtree).  I  told  you  so.  The  key  was  left  under  the  mat 
in  case  I  came.  They're  not  back  from  rehearsal.  (^Crosses 
L.,  to  fireplace.') 

Haw.  (coming  c. ;  looking  around).  And  this  is  the  Fairy's 
Bower. 

Geo.  And  this  is  the  Fairy's  fireplace ;  the  fire  is  laid,  I'll 
light  it.  {Places  hat  and  stick  on  table  and  lights  fire  tvith 
match  from  mantelpiece.) 

RED  LIGHT  gradually 
on  at  fireplace. 

Haw.  And  this  is  the  abode  rendered  blessed  by  her  abid- 
ing, it  is  here  that  she  dwells,  walks,  talks,  eats  and  drinks. 
Does  she  eat  and  drink  ? 

Geo.     Yes,  heartily.     I've  seen  her. 

Haw.  And  you  are  really  spoons — case  of  true  love — hit 
dead. 


8  .         CASTE 

Geo.  Right  through.  Can't  live  away  from  her.  {With 
elbotv  on  other  end  of  mantel  up  stage.) 

Haw.  Poor  old  Dal !  And  you've  brought  me  over  the 
water  to 

Geo.     Stangate. 

Haw.  Stangate — to  see  her  for  the  same  sort  of  reason  that 
when  a  patient  is  in  a  dangerous  state  one  doctor  calls  in  an- 
other for  a  consultation. 

Geo.     Yes  !     Then  the  patient  dies. 

Haw.  Tell  us  all  about  it.  You  know  I've  been  away. 
(^Sits  R.  of  table,  leg  on  chair,  hat  on  back  of  head,  stick  da?i- 
gling  aimlessly  in  his  hand.') 

Geo.     Well,  then,  eighteen  months  ago 

Haw.  Oh,  cut  that.  You  told  me  all  about  that.  You 
went  to  the  theatre  and  saw  a  girl  in  a  ballet,  and  you  fell  in 
love. 

Geo.  Yes,  I  found  out  that  she  was  an  amiable,  good 
girl 

Haw.  Of  course.  Cut  that.  We'll  credit  her  with  all  the 
virtues  and  accomplishments. 

Geo.     Who  worked  hard  to  support  a  drunken  father. 

Haw.  Oh,  the  father's  a  drunkard,  is  he  ?  The  father 
doesn't  inherit  the  daughter's  virtues. 

Geo.     No,  I  hate  him. 

Haw.     Naturally,  quite  so,  quite  so. 

Geo.  And  she,  that  is  Esther,  is  very  good  to  her  younger 
sister.     {Sits  at  l.  on  edge  of  table.) 

Haw.  The  younger  sister  also  angelic,  amiable,  accom- 
plished, etc.,  etc. 

Geo.  Um,  good  enough,  but  got  a  temper,  large  temper  ! 
Well,  with  some  difficulty  I  got  to  speak  to  her — I  mean  to 
Esther ;  then  I  was  allowed  to  see  her  to  her  door  here. 

Haw.  I  know — pastry-cooks,  Richmond  dinner,  and  all 
that. 

Geo.  You're  too  fast.  Pastry-cooks,  yes — Richmond,  no. 
Your  knowledge  of  the  world  fifty  yards  round  barracks  mis- 
leads you.  I  saw  her  nearly  every  day,  and  I  kept  on  falling 
in  love ;  falling  and  falling,  till  I  thought  I  should  never  reach 
the  bottom.     ( Walks  to  and  fro.)     Then  I  met  you. 

Haw.  I  remember  the  night  when  you  told  me,  but  I  knew 
it  was  only  an  amourette.  However,  if  the  fire  is  a  conflagra- 
tion, subdue  it;  try  dissipation. 

Geo.     I  have. 


CASTE         ,  9 

Haw.     What  success  ? 

Geo.  {pausing  c).  None.  Dissipation  brought  on  bad 
health,  and  self-contempt,  a  sick  head  and  a  sore  heart. 

Haw.  Foreign  travel.  Absence  makes  the  heart  grow 
stronger.     Get  leave  and  cut  away. 

Geo.  I  did  get  leave  and  I  did  cut  away,  and  while  away  I 
was  miserable,  and  a  gone  'er  coon  than  ever. 

Haw.     What's  to  be  done  ? 

Geo.  Don't  know.  That's  the  reason  I  asked  you  to  come 
over  and  see. 

Haw.  Of  course,  Dal,  you're  not  such  a  soft  as  to  think  of 
marriage.  You  know  what  your  mother  is.  Either  you  are 
going  to  behave  properly,  with  a  proper  regard  to  the  world, 
and  all  that,  you  know,  or  you're  going  to  do  the  other  thing. 
Now  the  question  is,  what  do  you  mean  to  do?  The  girl  is  a 
nice  girl  no  doubt,  but  as  to  your  making  her  Mrs.  D'Alroy  the 
thing  is  out  of  the  question. 

Geo.  Why,  what  should  prevent  me  ?  (^Returns  to  place 
on  table.) 

Haw.     Caste !     The  inexorable  law  of  caste.     The  social   J 
law,  so  becoming  and  so  good,  that  commands  like  to  mate 
with  like,  and  forbids  a  giraffe  to  fall  in  love  with  a  squirrel ; 
that  holds  sentiment  to  be  a  dissipation,  and  demands  the 
exercise  of  common  sense  from  all. 

Geo.     But,  my  dear  Bark 

Haw.  My  dear  Dal,  all  those  marriages  of  people  with 
common  people  are  all  very  well  in  novels  and  in  plays  on  the 
stage,  because  the  real  people  don't  exist,  and  have  no  rela- 
tives who  exist,  and  no  connections,  and  so  no  harm's  done, 
and  it's  rather  interesting  to  look  at;  but  in  real  life,  with  real 
relations,  and  real  mothers,  and  so  forth,  it's  absolute  bosh — 
it's  worse;  it's  utter  social  and  personal  annihilation  and  indi- 
vidual damnation. 

Geo.     As  to  my  mother,  I  haven't  thought  about  her. 

Haw,  Of  course  not.  Lovers  are  so  damned  selfish  they 
never  think  of  anybody  but  themselves. 

Geo.  My  father  died  when  I  was  three  years  old,  and  she 
married  again  before  I  was  six,  and  married  a  Frenchman. 

Haw.  a  nobleman  of  the  most  ancient  families  in  France, 
of  equal  blood  to  her  own  ;  slie  obeyed  the  duties  imposed  upon 
her  by  her  station,  and  by  caste. 

Geo.  Still  it  caused  a  separation  and  a  division  between  us, 
and  I  never  see  my  brother  because  he  lives  abroad.    Of  course 


lO  CASTE 

the  Marquise  de  St.  Maur  is  my  mother,  and  I  look  upon  her 
with  a  sort  of  superstitious  awe. 

Haw.     She's  a  grand  Brahmin  priestess. 

Geo.  Just  so,  and  I  know  I'm  a  fool.  Now  you're  clever, 
Bark,  a  little  too  clever,  I  think.  You're  paying  your  devoirs — 
that's  the  correct  word,  I  think — to  Lady  Florence  Carbury, 
the  daughter  of  a  Countess — she's  above  you,  you've  no 
title.     Is  she  to  forget  her  caste  ? 

Haw.  That  argument  doesn't  apply;  a  man  can  be  no 
more  than  a  gentleman. 

Geo.  {sauntering  tip  stage  to  window).  "  Kind  hearts  are 
more  than  coronets  and  simple  faith  than  Norman  blood." 

Haw.  Now,  George,  if  you're  going  to  consider  this  ques- 
tion from  a  point  of  view  of  poetry,  you're  off  to  no  man's 
land,  where  I  won't  follow  you. 

Geo.  No  gentleman  can  be  ashamed  of  the  woman  he  loves, 
no  matter  what  her  original  station — once  his  wife  he  raises  her 
to  his  rank. 

Haw.  Yes.  {Rises  and  crosses  l.  )  He  raises  her — her — 
but  her  connections — her  relatives.     How  about  them  ? 

Enter  Eccles,  r.  3  e. 

Ecc.  (entering).     Polly  ! — Why  the  devil {Rushes  c. 

before  he  sees  George  and  Hawtree  ;  assumes  a  deferential 
manner.)  Oh,  Mr.  D'Alroy,  I  didn't  see  you,  sir.  (George 
comes  down  c.)  Good-afternoon — the  same  to  you,  sir,  and 
many  on  'em.     {Doiein  R.) 

Geo.   {crossing  to  Hawtree).     This  is  papa. 

Haw.  Ah  !  {Leafiing  on  corner  of  mantelpiece  and  scan- 
7iifig  Eccles  through  eye-glass.) 

Geo.  (c).  Miss  Eccles  and  her  sister  not  returned  from 
rehearsal  yet? 

Ecc.  (r.).  No,  sir,  they  have  not ;  I  expect 'em  in  directly. 
I  hope  you've  been  quite  well  since  I  saw  you  last,  sir? 

Geo.  Quite,  thank  you ;  and  how  have  you  been,  Mr. 
Eccles  ? 

Ecc.  Well,  sir,  I  have  not  been  the  thing  at  all.  My'ealth, 
sir,  and  my  spirits  is  both  broken.  I  am  not  the  man  I  used 
to  be — I  am  not  accustomed  to  this  sort  of  thing.  I  have  seen 
better  days — but  they  are  gone,  most  like  for  ever.  It's  a 
melancholy  thing,  sir,  for  a  man  of  my  time  of  life  to  look  back 
on  better  days  that  are  gone  most  like  for  ever. 

Geo.     I  dare  say. 


CASTE  1 1 

Ecc.  Once  proud  and  prosperous,  I  am  now  poor  and  lowly 
— once  masler  of  a  shop,  1  am  now,  by  the  pressure  of  circum- 
stances over  which  I  have  no  control,  driven  to  seek  work  and 
not  find  it.  Poverty  is  a  dreadful  thing,  sir,  for  a  man  as  had 
once  been  well  off. 

Geo.     I  daresay. 

Ecc.  {sighing).  Ah!  sir,  the  poor  and  lowly  is  often  hardly 
used.     What  chance  has  the  working  man? 

Haw.  (l.).     None.     {Aside.)     When  he  don't  work. 

Ecc.     We  are  all  equal  in  mind  and  feeling. 

Haw.   (aside).     I  hope  not. 

Ecc.  I  am  sorry,  gentlemen,  that  I  cannot  offer  you  any 
refreshment,  but  luxury  and  me  has  long  been  strangers. 

Geo.  (crossing  to  Eccles,  taking  him  by  ann  and  leading 
him  up  R.,  speaking  aside  to  him).  I  am  very  sorry  for  your 
misfortunes,  Mr.  Eccles.  May  I  hope  that  you  will  allow  me 
to  offer  you  this  trifling  loan  ?     {Gives  him  half  a  sovereign.) 

Ecc.  {taking  it).  Sir,  you  are  a  gentleman — one  can  tell  a 
real  gentleman,  sir,  with  half  a  sov — I  mean  with  half  an  eye — a 
real  gentleman,  and  understand  the  natural  emotions  of  the 
working  man.  {Edges  up  toward  door  u.)  Pride,  sir,  is  a 
thing  as  should  be  put  down  by  the  strong  'and  of  pecuniary 
necessity.  I  promised  a  friend  to  meet  him  at  this  time  in  the 
neighborhood,  on  a  matter  of  business — so  if  you'll  excuse  me, 
sir. 

Geo.     With  pleasure. 

Ecc.   {at  door).     Sorry  to  leave  you,  gentlemen — but 

Geo.     Don't  stay  on  my  account. 

Haw.     Don't  mention  it. 

Ecc.  Business  is  business.  {Opens  door.)  The  girls  will 
be  here  directly.     Good-afternoon,  gentlemen. 

Exit,  K.  3  E. 

Geo.   {up  c,  sighing  with  relief).     Ah  ! 

Haw.  The  papa  is  not  nice,  but  "  Kind  hearts  are  more 
than  coronets,  and  simple  faith  than  Norman  blood."  Poor 
George !  I  wonder  what  your  mamma,  the  most  noble  the 
Marquise  de  St.  Maur,  would  think  of  Papa  Eccles.  Come, 
Dal,  allow  that  there  is  something  in  caste.  Conceive  that  dirty 
ruffian,  that  rinsing  of  stale  beer,  that  walking  tap-room  for  a 
father-in-law.  Go  out  in  Central  America.  Forget  her.  {Sits 
on  fable  l.) 

Geo.   {down  c).     Can't. 


12  CASTE 

Haw.     You'll  be  wretched  and  miserable  with  her. 

Geo.  I'd  rather  be  wretched  with  her  than  miserable  with- 
out her.  (Hawtree  takes  out  cigar  case.')  Don't  smoke 
here. 

Haw.   {surprised,  with  cigar-case  open).     Why  not? 

Geo.     She'll  be  coming  in  directly. 

Haw.     I  don't  think  she'd  mind.     {Takes  out  cigar.) 

Geo.  I  should  ;  do  you  smoke  before  Lady  Florence  Car- 
bury  ? 

Haw,  {closing  case).  Ha  !  you're  suffering  from  a  fit  of 
the  morals. 

Geo.     What  is  that  ? 

Haw.  The  morals  is  a  disease,  like  the  measles,  that  at- 
tacks the  young  and  innocent. 

Geo.  (unth  temper).  You  talk  like  Mephistopheles  without 
the  cleverness.     {Goes  up  to  window  and  looks  at  ivatch.) 

Haw.  I  don't  pretend  to  be  a  particularly  good  sort  of  fel- 
low, nor  a  particularly  bad  sort  of  fellow.  I  suppose  I'm  about 
the  average  standard  sort  of  thing,  and  I  don't  like  to  see  a 
friend  go  down  hill  to  the  devil  while  I  can  put  the  drag  on. 
Here  is  a  girl  of  humble  station,  poor,  and  all  that,  with  a 
drunken  father,  who  evidently  doesn't  care  how  he  gets  money 
so  long  as  he  doesn't  work  for  it.  Marriage — pah  !  Couldn't 
the  thing  be  arranged  ? 

Geo.  Hawtree,  cut  that.  {At  windoiv.)  She's  here. 
{Turns  from  window  ;  enter  Esther  Eccles,  r.  3  e.  George 
meets  her  at  door  ;  flurried  at  sight  of  her.)  Good-morning ; 
I  got  here  before  you,  you  see. 

(Hawtree  rises  and  removes  his  hat.) 

Est.   {coming  v..  c).     Good-morning. 

Geo.  I've  taken  the  liberty — 1  hope  you  won't  be  angry — 
of  asking  you  to  let  me  present  a  friend  of  mine  to  you.  Miss 
Eccles,  Captain  Hawtree. 

(Hawtree  advances  and  bows ;  George  assists  Esther  /// 
taking  off  bonnet  and  shawl,  and  places  them  on  chair  up 
stage.) 

Haw.   (l.  c.,  aside).     Pretty! 
Est.   {aside).     Thinks  too  much  of  himself. 
Geo.     You've  had  a  late  rehearsal.     Where's  Polly  ?     ( They 
go  up  c.  to  window.) 

Est.     She  stayed  behind  to  buy  something. 


CASTE  1 3 

Enter  Polly  Eccles,  r.  3  e.      These  two  girls  to  be  dressed 
alike — ballet  girl' s  kiss-me-quick  curls,  etc. 

Pol.  (crossing  to  table  tvith  packages ;  speaking  as  she 
passes  c).  Hallo,  Mr.  D'Alroy,  how  de  do?  Ah,  1  am  liied 
to  death.  Kept  at  rehearsal  by  an  old  fool  of  a  stage  manager 
— but  stage  managers  are  always  old  fools — except  when  they're 
young  ones.  We  shan't  have  time  for  any  dinner,  so  I've 
brought  something  for  lea,  ham.  (Bangs  ham  in  paper  on 
table  L.  c,  and  seeing  Wkwxk^^,  patises,  eyes  him,  and  laughs.) 
Oh,  I  beg  your  pardon,  sir,  I  didn't  see  you. 

Geo.  a  friend  of  mine,  Mary,  Captain  Hawtree.  Miss 
Mary  Eccles. 

Pol.  (behind  table,  aside).  What  a  swell !  Got  nice  teeth, 
and  he  knows  it.  (Takes  off  bonnet  and  shatvl.)  How  quiet 
we  all  are.  Let's  talk  about  something.  (^7/^  crosses  to  fire, 
L.,  round  table  front ;  Hawtree  comes  round  to  k.  of  table.) 

Est.  (sitting  in  zvindotv).     What  can  we  talk  about? 

Pol.  Anything.  (Bustles  about,  gets  plates  from  dresser, 
and  slips  the  ham  from  paper  on  it.)  Ham,  Mr.  D'Alroy  ? 
Do  you  like  ham  ? 

Geo.  (looki/tg  at  Esther).  I  adore  her.  (All  laugh.)  I 
mean  I  adore  it. 

Pol.   (to  Hawtree).     Do  you  like  ham,  sir? 

Haw.  Yes.  (Sits  at  table  atid follows  her  luith  his  eyes  as 
she  puts  the  dishes  out.) 

Pol.  Now  that  is  very  strange.  I  should  have  thought 
you'd  have  been  above  ham. 

Haw.     Why  ?     May  I  ask  why  ? 

Pol.  You  look  above  it.  You  look  quite  equal  to  tongue- 
glazed.  (Laughs.)  Mr.  D'Alroy  is  here  so  often  that  he  knows 
our  ways. 

Haw.  I  like  everything  that  is  piquante  and  fresh,  and 
pretty,  and  agreeable. 

Pol.  Ah!  you  mean  that  for  me.  (Curtseys.)  Oh! 
(Sings.)  Tra,  la  lal  la  la  !  Now  I  must  put  the  kettle  on. 
(Looks  up  stage  at  Esther  and  George  in  windoiv.  Sighs.) 
Esther  never  does  any  work  when  Mr.  D'Alroy  is  here.  They're 
spooning.  Ugly  word,  spoon,  isn't  it?  Reminds  me  of  red 
currant  jam.  By-the-bye,  love  is  very  like  currant  jam — at  the 
first  taste,  sweet;  afterward  shuddery.  Do  you  ever  spoon? 
(Leans  toward  him  on  L.  of  table.) 

Haw,     I  should  like  to  do  so  at  this  moment. 


14  CASTE 

Pol.  No,  you're  too  grand  for  me.  There's  too  much  of 
you  for  me.  You  want  taking  down  a  peg — I  mean  a  foot. 
Let's  see,  what  are  you,  a  corporal  ? 

Haw.     Captain. 

Pol.  I  prefer  corporal.  See  here,  let's  change  about.  You 
be  corporal — it'll  do  you  good — and  I'll  be  my  lady. 

Haw,     Pleasure. 

Pol.  You  must  call  me  my  lady,  though,  or  you  shan't  have 
any  ham. 

Haw.  Certainly,  my  lady.  But  I  cannot  accept  your  hos- 
pitality, for  V\w  engaged  to  dine. 

Pol.     At  what  time  ? 

Haw.     Seven. 

Pol.  Seven  !  Why,  that's  half-past  tea  time.  {Turns  to 
fireplace.)     Now,  Corporal,  you  must  wait  on  me. 

Haw.     As  the  pages  did  of  old. 

Pol.   {lifting  teakettle  from  hob).     My  lady  ! 

Haw.     My  lady. 

Pol.  Here's  the  kettle.  {Comes  round  front  of  table.') 
Corporal,  take  it  into  the  back  kitchen.  {Holds  kettle  out  to 
him.) 

Haw.     Eh ! 

Pol.     Pm  coming  too. 

Haw.  Oh,  that  alters  the  case.  {He  takes  kettle  handle 
between  fitiger  and  thimib.  Polly  at  c.  majestically  points 
the  way. ) 

Geo.     What  are  you  about  ? 

Haw.  About  to  fill  the  kettle.  {Holds  it  out  at  arm's 
length.) 

Est.  {to  Polly).  Mind  what  you  are  doing,  Polly;  what 
will  Sam  say? 

Pol.  Whatever  Sam  chooses.  What  the  sweetheart  don't 
see  the  husband  can't  grieve  at.     Corporal ! 

Haw.     My  lady.     {Salutes  with  empty  hand.) 

Pol.  Forward,  march,  and  mind  the  soot  don't  drop  upon 
your  trousers. 

Exeunt  Polly  and  Hawtree,  door  r.  i  e. 

Est.  {rising).  What  a  girl  it  is — all  spirits.  The  worst  is 
that  it  is  so  easy  to  mistake  her.     {Crosses  l.) 

Geo.  {rising  and  following  her).  And  so  easy  to  find  out 
your  mistake.  But  why  won't  you  let  me  present  you  with  a 
piano  ? 


CASTE  15 

Est.     I  don't  want  one. 

Geo.     You  said  you  were  fond  of  playing. 

Est.  We  may  be  fond  of  many  things  without  having  them. 
{Sits  at  R.  of  table.')  Now  here  is  a  gentleman  says  that  he  is 
attached  to  me.      {Takes  letter  from  pocket.) 

Geo.  {jealous).  May  I  know  his  name?  (///  front  of 
table  at  L.) 

Est.  What  for  ?  It  would  be  as  useless  as  his  solicitations. 
{Throws  letter  into  fire.) 

Geo.     I  lit  that  fire.     {Crosses  to  fire.) 

Est.  Then  burn  these  two — no,  not  that  {snatching  one 
back),  I  must  keep  that ;  burn  the  others. 

(George  does  so  ;  crosses  again.) 

Geo.     Who  is  that  from  ? 

Est.     Why  do  you  wish  to  know? 

Geo.  Because  I  love  you,  and  I  don't  think  you  love  me, 
and  I  fear  a  rival. 

Est.     You  have  none  ! 

Geo.     I  know  you  have  so  many  admirers. 

Est.     They're  nothing  to  me. 

Geo.     None  ? 

Est.  No.  They're  admirers,  but  there's  not  a  husband 
among  them. 

Geo.     Not  the  writer  of  that  letter  ? 

Est.     Oh,  I  like  him  very  much. 

Geo.     Oh ! 

Est.     And  I  am  very  fond  of  this. 

Geo.     Then,  Esther,  you  don't  care  for  me  ! 

Est.     Don't  I  ?     How  do  you  know  ? 

Geo.     Because  you  won't  let  me  read  that  letter. 

Est.     It  won't  please  you  if  you  see  it. 

Geo.  I  daresay  not.  That's  just  the  reason  that  I  want 
to.     You  won't? 

Est.     I  will — there  !     {Gives  it  to  him.) 

Geo.   {reading).     "Dear  madam." 

Est.     That's  tender,  isn't  it  ? 

Geo.  "  The  terms  are  four  pounds.  Your  dresses  to  be  found 
for  eight  weeks  certain,  and  longer  if  you  should  suit.  {In  as- 
tonishment.) I  cannot  close  the  engagement  until  the  return 
of  my  partner.  I  expect  him  back  to-day,  and  will  write  you 
as  soon  as  I  have  seen  him. — Yours  very,  &c."  Four  pounds, 
find  dresses  !     What  does  this  mean  ? 


l6  CASTE 

Est.  It  means  that  they  want  a  Columbine  for  the  panto- 
mime at  Manchester,  and  I  think  I  shall  get  the  engagement. 

Geo.     Manchester?     Then  you'll  leave  London. 

Est.  {rising).  I  must.  {Goes  behind  table  to  fireplace ; 
pauses.')  You  see  this  little  house  is  on  my  shoulders,  Polly, 
only  eighteen  shillings  a  week  and  father  has  been  out  of  work 
a  long,  long  time.  I  make  the  bread  here,  and  it's  hard  to 
make  sometimes.  I've  been  mistress  of  this  place,  and  forced 
to  think  ever  since  my  mother  died,  and  1  was  eight  years 
old. — Four  pounds  a  week  is  a  large  sum.     I  can  save  out  of  it. 

Geo.  {following  and  standing  at  'R.  of  and  a  little  behind 
her).     But  you'll  go  away  and  I  shan't  see  you. 

Est.  Perhaps  it  will  be  for  the  best.  What  future  is  there 
for  us?  You're  a  man  of  rank,  and  I  am  a  poor  girl  who  gets 
her  living  by  dancing.  It  would  have  been  better  that  we  had 
never  met. 

Geo.     No  1 

Est.     Yes,  it  would,  for  I'm  afraid  that 

Geo.     You  love  me  ? 

Est.     I  don't  know.     I'm  not  sure,  but  I  think  I  do. 

Geo.   {trying  to  seize  her  hand).     Esther  ! 

Est.     No.     Think  of  the  difference  of  our  stations. 

Geo.  That's  what  Hawtree  says.  Caste,  caste,  curse  caste  ! 
(^Goes  up  a  little.) 

Est.  If  I  go  to  Manchester  it  will  be  for  the  best.  We 
must  both  try  to  forget  each  other. 

Geo.     Forget  you.     No,  Esther,  let  me {Seizes  her 

hand. ) 

Pol.  {outside).  Mind  what  you  are  about.  Oh,  dear  !  oh, 
dear  ! 

(George  and  Esther  retire  up  c.     Enter  Polly  and  Haw- 

T'REE,  R.    I  E.) 

Pol.  {shaking  her  skirts  as  she  crosses).  You  nasty  great 
clumsy  corporal,  you've  spilt  the  water  all  over  my  frock.  Oh, 
dear  me  i     {Comes  doivn  c.) 

Haw.     Allow  me  to  offer  you  a  new  one. 

Pol.  No  {taking  chair  r.  of  table),  I  won't.  You'll  be 
calh'ng  to  see  how  it  looks  when  it's  on.  Haven't  you  got  a 
handkerchief?     Wipe  it  dry. 

(Hawtree  bends  almost  on  one  knee,  and  zvipes  dress  on  her. 
Enter  Sam  Gerridge,  door  r.  3  e.  ) 


CASTE  17 

Sam.  Afternoon.  (^Savagely.)  I  suppose  you  didn't  hear 
me  knock.     The  door  was  open.     I'm  afraid  I  intrude. 

Pol.  No,  you  don't,  we're  glad  to  see  you  ;  if  you've  got  a 
handkerchief  help  to  wipe  it  dry. 

{?>ku  passes  to  L.  (?/"  Polly  and  assists  Hawtree.) 

Haw.     Fm  very  sorry.     {Jii'scs.) 

Pol.     It  won't  spoil  it. 

Sam.     The  stain  won't  come  out.     (^jRises.) 

Pol.     It's  only  water. 

Sam.  Good -afternoon,  Miss  Eccles.  (Polly  rises.)  Who's 
the  other  swell  ?     (To  Polly.) 

Pol.  I'll  introduce  you.  Captain  Hawtree — Mr.  Sam 
Gerridge. 

Haw.     Charmed.     (To  George,  go/ //g  u/>.)     Who's  this? 

Geo.     Polly's  sweetheart. 

Haw.  Oh.  (P/<ts  up  eye-g/ass  and  stares  at  Sam.)  Now 
if  I  can  be  of  no  further  assistance,  I'll  go.  (Looks  at  luatch.) 
George,  will  you?     (George  takes  no  notice.)     Will  you? 

Geo.     What  ? 

Haw.     Go  with  me. 

Geo.     Go  !     No. 

Haw.  (l.  c,  to  Polly,  coming  doimi).  Then,  Miss  Eccles — 
I  mean,  my  lady.     (Shakes  hands.) 

Pol.  (r.  c).     Good-bye,  Corporal. 

Haw.  Good-bye.  (l.)  Good-afternoon,  Mr. — pardon  me. 
(To  Sam.) 

Sam  {jvith  constrained  rage).     Gerridge,  sir. 

Haw.     Ah,  Gerridge.     Good-day.     (Goes  up.) 

Exit,  D.  r. 

Sam  (to  Polly).     Who's  that  fool  ?    Who's  that  long  idiot  ? 

Pol.     I  told  you — Captain  Hawtree. 

Sam.     What's  he  want  here  ? 

Pol.     He's  a  friend  of  Mr.  D'Alroy's. 

Sam.     Ugh  !     Isn't  one  of  'em  enough  ! 

Pol.     What  do  you  mean  ? 

Sam,     For  the  neighbors  to  talk  about.     Who's  he  after? 

Pol.  What  do  you  mean  by  after?  You're  forgetting 
yourself,  I  think. 

Sam.  No,  I'm  not  forgetting  myself— I'm  remembering  you. 
What  can  a  long  fool  of  a  swell  dressed  up  to  the  nines  within 
an  inch  of  his  life  want  after  two  girls  of  your  class?     Look  at 


1 8  CASTE 

the  difference  of  your  stations.     They  don't  come  here  after 
any  good.     {Doivn  l.  c.) 

(^During  this  speech  Esther  crosses  to  fire  and  sits  before  it  in 
low  chair  ;  George  fo/iows  her  and  sits  on  her  l.) 

Pol.  {down  r.  c).     Samuel ! 

Sam.  I  mean  what  I  say.  People  ought  to  stick  to  their 
own  class.  Life  is  a  railway  journey,  and  mankind  is  a  pas- 
senger— first-class,  second-class,  third-class.  Any  person  found 
riding  in  a  superior  class  to  that  for  which  he  has  taken  his 
ticket  will  be  removed  at  the  first  station  stopped  at,  according 
to  the  by-laws  of  the  company. 

Pol.  You're  giving  yourself  nice  airs.  What  business  is  it 
of  yours  who  comes  here  ?     Who  are  you  ? 

Sam.     Pm  a  mechanic. 

Pol.     That's  evident. 

Sam.  I'm  not  ashamed  of  it.  Pm  not  ashamed  of  my  paper 
cap. 

Pol.  Why  should  you  be?  I  daresay  Captain  Hawtree 
isn't  ashamed  of  his  fourteen  and  sixpenny  gossamer. 

Sam.  You  think  a  lot  of  him  coS'  he's  a  captain.  Why  did 
he  call  you  my  lady  ? 

Pol.  Because  he  treated  me  as  one.  I  wish  you'd  make 
the  same  mistake. 

{They  bounce  tip  stage  wrangling.^ 

Est.  {sitting  with  Geokge  tete-a-tete  by  fire).  But  we  must 
listen  to  reason. 

Geo.     I  hate  reason. 

Est.     I  wonder  what  it  means  ? 

Geo.  Everything  disagreeable.  When  people  insist  on 
talking  unpleasantly,  they  always  say  listen  to  reason. 

Sam  {coming  down^.     What  will  the  neighbors  say  ? 

Pol.     I  don't  care.     {Comes  dozvn.) 

Sam.     What  will  the  neighbors  thi7ik  ? 

Pol.  They'll ////>//&  nothing.  They  can't  think.  Like  you, 
they've  not  been  educated  up  to  it. 

Sam.     It  all  comes  of  your  being  on  the  stage. 

Pol.  It  all  comes  of  your  not  understanding  me  or  anything 
else  but  putty.     Now,  if  you  were  a  gentleman 

Sam.     Then  of  course  I  should  make  up  to  a  lady. 

{They  bounce  up  stage  again.) 


CASTE  19 

Geo.  Reason's  an  idiot,  two  and  two  are  four,  and  twelve 
and  eight  are  twenty.     That's  reason. 

Sam  {coming  down).     The  stage  !     Painting  your  cheeks. 

Pol.  Better  paint  our  cheeks  than  paint  nasty  old  doors  as  you 
do.  How  can  you  understand  art  ?  You,  a  mechanic.  You're 
not  a  professional;  you're  not  in  trade;  you  are  not  of  the 
same  station  that  we  are.  When  the  manager  speaks  to  you, 
you  touch  your  hat,  and  say,  "Yes,  sir,"  because  he's  your 
superior. 

Geo.  When  people  love  there's  no  such  thing  as  money. 
It  don't  exist. 

Est.     Yes,  it  does. 

Geo.     Then  it  oughtn't  to. 

Sam.  The  manager  employs  me,  as  he  does  you.  Payment 
is  good  everywhere  and  anywhere ;  whatever  is  commercial  is 
right. 

Pol.  Actors  are  not  like  mechanics.  They  wear  cloth 
coats,  and  not  fustian  jackets. 

Sam.     I  dislike  play-actors. 

Pol.     And  I  despise  mechanics. 

{They  tear  up  stage  again.) 

Geo.     I  never  think  of  anything  else  but  you. 

Est.     Really ! 

Sam  {coining  doiv 71).  Polly,  I  won't  stay  here  to  be  insulted. 
[Puts  on  cap.) 

Pol.     Nobody  wants  you  to  stay.     Go  ! 

Sam.  I  will  go.  Good-bye,  Miss  Mary  Eccles.  {Crosses 
c.  to  door  R.  3  E.)  I  shan't  come  here  again.  {Turns  to 
door.) 

Pol.     Don't !     Good  riddance  to  bad  rubbish  ! 

Sam.     You  can  go  to  your  captain. 

Pol.  And  you  to  your  putty.  {Leans  against  r.  of  table 
facing  him.) 

Est.  And  so  you  think  you  shall  always  love  as  you  do 
now  ? 

Geo.     More ! 

Pol.  [running  quickly  across  to  door  r.  3  e.).  Now,  you 
shan't  go.  {Locks  door,  takes  out  key,  which  she  pockets ; 
places  back  against  door.)     Now  Pll  just  show  you  my  power. 

Sam.     Miss  Eccles,  let  me  out.     {Advances  to  door.) 

Pol.     Shan't. 

Est.     Now  you  two.     {Postman's  knock.)     The  postman. 


20  CASTE 

Sam.     Now  you  must  let  me  go ;  you  must  unlock  the  door  ! 

Pol.  No,  I  needn't.  (^Opeiis  tvindow,  looking  out. ^  Here, 
postman.  {Takes  letter.')  Thank  you.  {Reads  address.) 
Esther. 

Est.   {rising).     For  me  ? 

Pol.  Yes.  {Gives  it  to  her,  closes  window,  and  returns 
to  door  triumphantly.     Business  of  wranglifig  loith  Sam.) 

Est.   {going  down  l.  of  table).     From  Manchester. 

Geo.     Manchester?     {Comes  down  l.,  back  of  table.) 

Est.  {l.  c,  reading).  I've  got  the  engagement,  four  pounds 
a  week, 

(George  places  his  arm  rojind  her.) 

Geo.     You  shan't  go,  Esther.     Stay,  be  my  wife. 

Est.     But  the  world,  your  world  ? 

Geo.  Damn  the  world,  you're  my  world.  Stay  with  your 
husband,  Mrs.  D'Alroy. 

Sam.     I  will  go  out.     {With  sudden  determination.) 

Pol.     You  can't  and  you  shan't. 

Sam.  I  can.  I  will !  {Rushes  to  window,  opens  it,  and 
Jumps  out.) 

WARN  curtain. 

Pol.  {frightened).  He's  hurt  himself.  Sam,  dear  Sam  ! 
{Runs  to  windoiv ;  Sau's  face  appears  at  window;  Polly 
shuts  it  down  violently;  during  this  George  has  kissed 
Esther.) 

Geo.  My  wife!  {The  handle  of  door  is  heard  to  rattle, 
then  the  door  is  shaken  violently  ;  Esther  crosses  to  Polly,  up 
c,  who  gives  her  key ;  Esther  then  opens  the  door.  Eccles 
reels  in  very  drunk  and  clings  to  the  corner  of  bureau,  "R.ffor 
support.  George  stands  l.  c,  pulling  his  moustache,  Esther 
a  little  way  up  r.  c,  looking  ivith  shame  first  at  her  father, 
then  at  George.     Polly  sitting  in  window  recess,  up  c.) 

RING  cwftain. 
CURTAIN 

{For  call,  George  hat  in  hand  bidding'E^.TU'E.R good-bye,  r., 
Eccles  sitting  in  chair,  nods  before  the  fire,  Saj\i  again 
looks  in  at  windoiv,  Voian  pulls  the  blind  violently.) 


ACT  II 

Scene. — George's  lodgings  in  Mayfair.  A  handsome  rooin 
with  folding  doors  at  back  through  which  is  visible  his 
dining-room  luith  a  glimpse  of  the  side-board.  There  is  a 
ivindow  at  r.,  and  a  door  at  tJie  upper  r.  corner.  At  l., 
opposite  the  windo7ci,  is  a  piano  with  a  stool  before  it. 
There  is  a  table  at  R.  C,  ivith  a  chair  and  footstool  at  L. 
of  it,  and  another  at  its  r.,  a  little  doion  stage.  A  chair 
is  placed  on  either  side  of  the  windoiv  \\.,  and  a  stand  of 
flowers  before  it.  TJiere  is  another  stand  of  fioivers  in 
tfie  upper  L.  corner,  and  a  large  chair  below  and  in  front 
of  it. 

LIGHTS  full  «p. 

(Esther  atid  George  discovered  sitting  in  easy  chairs,  r.  and 
L.  of  table ;  George  has  his  uniform  trousers  and  spurs 
on.) 

Est.   Cr.).     George,  dear,  you  seem  out  of  spirits. 

Geo.  (l.,  smoking  cigarette').  Not  at  all,  dear;  not  at  all. 
{^Rallies.) 

Est.     Then  why  don't  you  talk.? 

Geo.     I've  nothing  to  say. 

Est.     That's  no  reason. 

Geo.     I  can't  talk  about  nothing. 

Est.  Yes,  you  can.  You  often  do.  {Rises.)  You  used 
to  do  so  before  we  were  married.  {Passes  behitid  his  chair, 
bends  over  and  caresses  him.) 

Geo.  {looking  tip  at  her  and  taking  the  hand  she  puts  on  his 
face,  kisses  it,  draiving  her  round  before  him).  No,  I  didn't. 
I  talked  about  you  and  my  love  for  you.  D'ye  call  that 
nothing  ? 

Est.  [sitting  on  stool,  l.  of  George).  How  long  have  we 
been  married,  dear?  Let  me  see,  six  months  yesterday. 
{Dreamily.)  It  hardly  seems  a  week.  It  almost  seems  a 
dream. 

Geo.  Awfully  jolly  dream.  Don't  let  us  wake  up.  {Aside.) 
How  ever  shall  I  tell  her  ? 

21 


22  CASTE 

Est.     And  when  I  married  you  I  was  twenty- two,  wasn't  I? 

Geo.  Yes,  dear  \  but  then  you  know  you  must  have  been 
some  age  or  other. 

Est.  No ;  but  to  think  that  I'd  lived  two-and-twenty  years 
without  knowing  you. 

Geo.     What  of  it,  dear  ? 

Est.     It  seems  such  a  dreadful  waste  of  time. 

Geo.     So  it  was,  awful. 

Est.  Do  you  remember  our  first  meeting  ?  Then  I  was  in 
the  ballet. 

Geo.     Yes.     Now  you're  in  the  heavies. 

Est.  Then  I  was  in  tlie  front  rank.  Now  I'm  of  high  rank. 
The  Hon.  Mrs.  George  D'Alroy.  You  promoted  me  to  be 
your  wife. 

Geo.     No,  dear.     You  promoted  me  to  be  your  husband. 

Est.     And  now  I'm  one  of  the  aristocracy,  ain't  I  ? 

Geo.  Yes,  dear.  I  suppose  that  we  may  consider  our- 
selves   

Est.  Tell  me,  George,  are  you  quite  sure  that  you  are 
proud  of  your  poor  little  humble  wife? 

Geo.     Proud  of  you  !     Proud  as  the  winner  of  the  Derby. 

Est.  Wouldn't  you  have  loved  me  better  if  I'd  been  a 
lady? 

Geo.     You  are  a  lady.     You're  Mrs.  D'Alroy. 

Est.  What  will  your  mamma  say  when  she  knows  of  your 
marriage?     I  quite  tremble  at  the  thought  of  meeting  her. 

Geo.     So  do  I.     Luckily  she's  in  Rome. 

Est.  Do  you  know,  George,  1  should  like  to  be  married  all 
over  again. 

Geo.     Not  to  anybody  else,  I  hope  ? 

Est.     My  darling  ! 

Geo.     But  why  over  again?     Why? 

Est.  Our  courtship  was  so  beautiful !  it  was  like  in  a  novel 
from  the  library,  only  better.  You,  a  fine,  rich,  high-born 
gentleman,  coming  to  our  humble  little  house  to  court  poor  me. 
Do  you  remember  the  ballet  you  first  saw  me  in  ?  That  was  at 
Covent  Garden.  "Jeanne  la  FoUe,  or.  The  Return  of  the 
Soldier."  {Rises  and  goes  to  piaiw.')  Don't  you  remember 
the  dance?     {Sits  and  plays  piatio.) 

Geo.  Esther,  how  came  you  to  learn  to  play  the  piano? 
Did  you  teach  yourself? 

Est.  Yes;  so  did  Polly.  We  can  only  just  touch  the  notes, 
to  amuse  ourselves. 


CASTE  23 

Geo.     How  was  it  ? 

Est.  {turning  toiva? d  him  on  piano  stool').  I've  told  you 
so  often  ! 

Geo.  Tell  me  again.  (Esther  returns  to  stool  at  his 
feet.)  I'm  like  the  children,  1  like  to  hear  what  I  know 
already. 

Est.  Well  then,  mother  died  when  I  was  quite  young ;  I 
can  only  just  remember  her.  Polly  was  an  infant,  so  I  had  to 
be  Polly's  mother.  Father,  who  is  a  very  eccentric  man,  but  a 
very  good  one,  when  you  know  him  (George' sy'az^/  drops  and 
he  pulls  his  moustacfie),  did  not  take  much  notice  of  us,  and 
we  got  on  as  well  as  we  could.  We  used  to  let  the  first  floor, 
and  a  lodger  took  it — Herr  Griffenhaagen.  He  was  a  ballet 
master  at  the  opera.  He  took  a  fancy  to  me,  and  asked  me  if 
I  should  like  to  learn  to  dance,  and  I  told  him  father  couldn't 
afford  to  pay  for  my  tuition ;  and  he  said  that  {imitation')  he 
didn't  want  payment,  but  that  he  would  teach  me  for  nothing; 
for  he  had  taken  a  fancy  to  me,  because  I  was  like  a  little  lady 
he  had  known  long  years  ago  in  de  far  off  land  he  came  from. 
Then  he  got  us  an  engagement  at  the  theatre.  That  is  how  we 
first  were  in  the  ballet. 

Geo.  That  fellow  was  a  great  brick ;  I  should  like  to  ask 
him  to  dinner  !     What  became  of  him  ? 

Est.  I  don't  know;  he  left  England.  {Qi¥.o&q^  fidgets  and 
looks  at  watch  ;  gets  up  and  goes  to  ivindow  at  R.)  You  are 
very  restless,  George;  what's  the  matter? 

Geo.     Nothing. 

Est,     Are  you  going  out  ? 

Geo,  Yes,  {Looks  at  his  boots  and  spurs.)  That's  the 
reason  I  dined  in  these. 

Est,     To  the  barracks  ?     {Rises.) 

Geo.     Yes. 

Est.     On  duty  ? 

{Both  at  c.) 

Geo.  {hesitating).  On  duty  !  And  of  course  when  a  man 
is  a  soldier  he  must  go  on  duty  when  he's  ordered,  and  when 

he's  ordered,  and — and {Aside.)     Why  did  I  ever  enter 

the  service  ? 

Est.  {ttvining  her  arms  round  him),  George,  if  you  must 
go  out  to  your  club,  go.  Don't  mind  leavmg  me,  {Takes  his 
hand.)  Somehow  or  other,  George,  these  last  few  days  every- 
thing seems  to  have  changed  with  me.     I  don't  know  why, 


24  CASTE 

sometimes  my  eyes  fill  with  tears  for  no  reason,  and  sometimes 
I  feel  so  happy  for  no  reason.  I  don't  mind  being  left  by 
myself  as  I  used  to  do.  When  you  are  a  few  minutes  behind 
time  I  don't  run  to  the  window  and  watch  for  you,  and  turn 
irritable.  Not  that  I  love  you  less,  no  !  for  I  love  you  more ; 
but  often  when  you  are  away  I  don't  feel  that  I  am  by  myself. 
I  never  feel  alone.     (^Goes  to  piano  and  turns  over  music.) 

Geo.  (aside).  What  angels  women  are  !  At  least  this  one 
is;  I  forget  all  about  the  others.  (Carriage  wheels  heard 
off  R.)  If  I'd  known  I  could  have  been  so  happy,  I'd  have 
sold  out  when  I  married.     (Knock  at  street  door,  r.) 

Est.   (standing  at  table).     That's  for  us. 

Geo.  (at  window,  r.).  Hawtree  in  a  hansom  !  (Aside.) 
He's  come  for  me.  I  must  tell  her  sooner  or  later.  (At  door 
up  R.  c)     Come  in,  Hawtree. 

Enter,  tip  r.  c,  Hawtree  i7i  regimentals. 

Haw.  How  do?  Hope  you're  well,  Mrs.  D'Alroy.  (Es- 
ther greets  him,  then  turns  aside  to  piano.  Hawtree  comes 
doton  R. ;  places  cap  on  table.)  George,  are  you  coming 
to 

Geo.  (coming  doivn  tvith  him,  c).  No,  I've  dined.  We've 
dined  early. 

(Esther /Ayx  scraps  of  music  at  piano.') 

Haw.  (sotto  voce).     Haven't  you  told  her  ? 

Geo.  (going  dozan  l.  of  Hawtree).     No,  I  daren't. 

Haw.  But  you  must. 

Geo.  You  know  what  an  awful  coward  I  am.  You  do  it 
for  me. 

Haw.  Not  for  worlds.  I  have  just  had  my  own  adieu  to 
make. 

Geo.  Ah,  yes,  to  Florence  Carbury;  how  did  she  take  it? 

Haw.  Oh,  very  well  ! 

Geo.  Did  she  cry  ? 

Haw.  No. 

Geo.  Nor  exhibit  any  emotion  whatever  ? 

Haw.  No,  not  particularly. 

Geo.  Didn't  you  kiss  her  ? 

Haw.  No,  Lady  Clardonax  was  in  the  room. 

Geo.  Didn't  she  squeeze  your  hand  ? 

Haw.  No. 


CASTE  25 

Geo.     Didn't  she  say  anylhing  ? 

Haw.  No,  except  that  she  hoped  to  see  me  back  again 
soon,  and  tliat  India  was  a  bad  chmate. 

Geo.  Umph !  It  seems  to  have  been  a  tragic  parting, 
almost  as  tragic  as  parting  your  back  hair. 

Haw.  Lady  Florence  is  not  the  sort  of  person  to  make  a 
scene. 

Geo.  To  be  sure  she's  not  your  wife !  1  wish  Esther 
would  be  as  cool  and  comfortable.  {Afier  a  pause.)  No,  I 
don't.  {A  rap  at  door  up  u.  c.  j  then  enter  UixoN.)  Oh, 
Dixon,  lay  out  my 

Dix.  (r.  c).  I  have  laid  them  out;  everything  is  ready. 
[Stands  7ip  stage  near  door.) 

Geo.  {after  a  pause,  irresolutely).  I  must  tell  her, 
mustn't  I  ? 

Haw.  Better  send  for  her  sister.  Let  Dixon  go  for  her  in 
a  cab. 

Geo.     Just  so.     I'll  send  him  at  once.     Dixon (^Goes 

up  and  talks  to  DixON. ) 

Est.  (rising).  Do  you  want  to  have  a  talk  with  my  hus- 
band ?     Shall  I  go  into  the  dining-room  ? 

Haw.     No,  Mrs.  D'Alroy.     {Goes  to  her  at  piano.) 

Geo.  No,  dear.  At  once,  Dixon.  Tell  the  cabman  to 
drive  like — (exit  Dixon)  like  a  cornet  just  joined.  [Goes 
down  R.  c.) 

Est.  {to  Hawtree).     Are  you  going  to  take  him  anywhere? 

Haw.  No.  [Aside.)  Yes,  to  India.  [Crosses  c,  to 
George.)     Tell  her  now. 

Geo.  No,  no.  I'll  wait  till  I  put  on  my  uniform.  [Goes 
up  R. ;  the  door  up  R.  c.  opens  and  Vo\a.\  peeps  in.) 

Pol.     How  d'ye  do,  good  people  ?  quite  well  ? 

Geo.     Eh  !     Didn't  you  meet  Dixon  ? 

Pol.     Who? 

Geo.     Dixon — my  man. 

Pol.     No.     (Enters.) 

Geo.  [crossing  down  l.  to  Esther  ;  aside).  Confound  it ! 
He'll  have  his  ride  for  nothing. 

Pol.  Bless  you,  my  turtles.  [Blesses  them  ballet  fashion.) 
George,  kiss  your  mother.  [He  kisses  her.)  That's  what  I 
call  an  honorable  brotlier-in-law's  kiss.  I'm  not  in  the  way, 
am  I? 

Geo.  [crossing  to  Haw. ).  Not  at  all.  I'm  very  glad  you've 
come. 


26  CASTE 

(Esther  and  Polly  embrace.  Polly  sits  on  piano  stool  from 
which  Esther  has  risen  and  takes  off  her  hat,  placing 
parasol  top  of  piano.') 

Haw.  {back  to  audience  and  elbozv  on  easy  chair,  r.  ;  aside 
to  George).  Under  ordinary  circumstances  she's  not  a  very 
eligible  visitor. 

Geo.     Caste  again.     (^Goes  up  c.)     Fll  be  back  directly. 

Exit  through  folding  doors,  c. 

Haw.   (crossing  h.).     Mrs.  D'Alroy,  I (Shakes  hands.) 

Est.   (who  is  standing  over  YoiAN,  at  piano).     Going? 

Pol.  (rising).  I  drive  you  away,  Captain?  (Takes  her 
parasol  from  piano.) 

Haw.     No. 

Pol.  Yes,  I  do,  I  frighten  you.  I'm  so  ugly;  I  know  I 
do.     You  frighten  me. 

Haw.     How  so  ? 

Pol.  You're  so  handsome.  (Comes  do7un  l.  c.)  Partic- 
ularly in  these  clothes,  for  all  the  world  like  an  inspector  of 
police. 

Est.   (half-aside).     Polly ! 

Haw.  (aside).  This  is  a  wild  sort  of  thing  in  sisters-in-law. 
(Up  stage,  c.) 

Pol.     Any  news,  Captain  ? 

Haw.  (in  a  draivling  tone).  No.  Is  there  any  news  with 
you? 

Pol.  (imitating  his  drawl).  Yes.  We've  got  a  new  piece 
coming  out  at  our  theatre. 

Haw.     What's  it  about? 

Pol.  (draivling).  I  don't  know.  (71?  Esther.)  Had  him 
there.  (Haw.  drops  siuord  impatiently.)  Going  to  kill  any- 
body to-day  that  you've  got  your  sword  on? 

Haw.     No. 

Pol.     I  thought  not.     (Sings.) 

"  With  a  sabre  on  his  brow. 
And  a  helmet  by  his  side ; 
The  soldier  sweethearts  servant  maids, 
And  eats  cold  meat  besides."     (Laughs.) 

Enter  George,  door  up  stage,  c,  in  uniform,  carrying  in  his 
hand  his  sword,  sword  belt  and  cap.     Esther  meets  him, 


CASTE  27 

takes  them  from  him,  and  places  them  on  chair  up  L.,  (hen 
comes  half  down  L. ;  George  goes  down  r.  c. 

Pol.  (clapping  her  hands).  Oh,  here's  a  beautiful  brother- 
in-law  !  Why  didn't  you  come  in  on  your  horse  as  they  do  at 
Astley's?  Gallop  in  and  say  {puts parasol  under  her  ai'm  and 
imitates  prances  of  a  horse  all  through  follozving  scene  ;  can- 
ters down  c.)  :  Soldiers  of  France,  the  eyes  of  Europe  are 
a-looking  at  you.  The  Empire  has  confidence  in  you,  and 
France  expects  that  every  man  this  day  will  do  his  little  utmost. 
The  foe  is  before  you — more's  the  pity — and  you  are  before 
I  hem — worse  luck  for  you  !  Forward  !  Go  and  get  killed,  and 
to  those  who  escape,  the  Emperor  will  give  a  little  bit  of  rib- 
bon. Nineteens  about  !  Forward  !  Gallop  !  Charge !  {Round 
to  R.,  imitating  bugle  and  giving  point  ivith  parasol ;  she  nearly 
spears  Hawtree'  s  nose.  Hawtree  claps  his  hand  upon  his 
sword-hilt ;  she  throit's  herself  into  chair  laughing,  and  clap- 
ping \iPi.\V'V'R^^''s,  cap  from  table  upon  her  head.  All  laugh  and 
applaud — carriage  zvheels  heard  without.)  What's  that  ?  [A 
peal  of  knocks  heard  at  street  door. ) 

George  {who  has  hastened  to  window,  up  R.).  A  carriage. 
Good  heavens,  my  mother  ! 

Haw.   {at  taindoiv,  r.).      The  marchioness  ! 

Est.  {crossing  to  George).     Oh,  George  ! 

Pol.  {crossing  to  windoiu).  A  marchioness !  A  real  live 
marchioness  !     Let  me  look  !     I  never  saw  a 

Geo.  {forcing  her  from  window).  No,  no,  no !  She 
doesn't  know  I'm  married.  I  must  break  it  to  her  by  degrees. 
What  shall  I  do? 

Est.     Let  me  go  into  the  bedroom  until 

Haw.     Too  late.     She's  on  the  stairs. 

Est.     Here,  then.     {Goes  to  doors,  c,  up  stage.) 

Pol.     I  want  to  see  a  real  live  march 

(George  lifts  her  in  his  arms  and  places  her  within  folding 
doors  with  Esthek,  crossing  to  door  r.  c.  ;  Hawtree 
closes  folding  doors,  c,  as  George  opens  door  r.  c, 
and  admits  Marquise  de  St.  Maur.) 

Geo.  {escorting  her  down  stage,  R.).  My  dear  mother,  I 
saw  you  getting  out  of  the  carriage. 

(Hawtree,  up  l.) 

Mar.     My  dear  boy  {kissing  his  forehead),  I  am  so  glad  I 


28  CASTE 

got  to  London  before  you  embarked.  (George  nervous; 
Hawtree  comes  down  L.)  Captain  Hav;tree,  I  think.  How 
do  you  do  ? 

Haw.  (crossing  in  front  of  table~).  Quite  well,  1  thank  your 
ladyship.     I  trust  you  are? 

Mar.  {sitting  in  easy  chair,  R.).  Oh,  quite,  thanks.  Do 
you  still  see  the  Countess  and  Lady  Florence? 

Haw.     Yes. 

Mar.  Please  remember  me  to  them.  (Hawtree  takes  cap 
from  table  and  places  sword  under  his  ar)n.^     Are  you  going? 

Haw.  Yaas.  I  am  compelled.  (Bows,  crosses  round 
back  of  table  :  to  George,  zuho  meets  him,  r.  c.)  I'll  be  at  the 
door  for  you  at  seven.  We  must  be  at  barracks  by  the  quarter. 
(George  crosses  back,  l.)  Poor  devil !  This  comes  of  a  man 
marrying  beneath  him. 

Exit  door  r.  ;  George  comes  doivn  l.  of  table. 

Mar.  I'm  not  sorry  that  he's  gone,  for  I  wanted  to  talk  to 
you  alone.  Strange  that  a  woman  of  such  good  birth  as  the 
Countess  should  encourage  the  atlentions  of  Captain  Hawtree 
for  her  daughter  Florence.  Lady  Clardonax  was  one  of  the 
old  Carburys  of  Hampshire — not  the  Norfolk  Carburys  but 
the  direct  line,  and  Mr.  Hawtree' s  grandfather  was  in  trade — 
something  in  the  City — soap,  1  think,  perhaps  pickles.  (Points 
to  stool ;  George  brings  it  to  her;  she  motions  that  he  is  to 
sit  at  her  feet ;  George  does  so.)  He's  a  very  nice  person, 
but  parvenu  as  any  one  may  see  by  his  languor  and  his  swag- 
ger. My  boy  (kissi)ig  his  forehead),  I  am  sure,  will  never 
make  a  mesaUiance.  He  is  a  D'Alroy  and  by  his  mother's 
side,  Planta  Genista.     The  source  of  our  life  stream  is  Royal ! 

Geo.     How  is  the  Marquis  ? 

Mar.  Paralyzed.  I  left  hirn  at  Spa  with  three  physicians. 
He  always  is  paralyzed  at  this  time  of  the  year;  it's  in  the 
family.  The  paralysis  is  not  personal  but  hereditary.  I  came 
over  to  see  my  steward  ;  got  to  town  last  night. 

Geo.      How  did  you  find  me  out  here  ? 

Mar.  I  sent  the  footman  to  tlie  barracks,  and  he  saw  your 
man  Dixon  in  the  street,  and  Dixon  gave  him  this  address. 
It's  so  long  since  I've  seen  you.  (Leans  back  in  chair.) 
You're  looking  very  well,  and  I  dare  say  when  mounted  are 
quite  a  beau  cavalier  ;  and  so,  my  boy  (playing  with  his  hair), 
you  are  going  abroad  for  the  first  time  on  active  service  ? 


CASTE  29 

Geo.  {aside).     Every  word  can  be  heard  in  the  next  room — 

if  they  have  only  gone  up-stairs  ! 

Mar,  And  now,  my  dear  boy,  before  you  go  I  want  to  give 
you  some  advice,  and  you  mustn't  despise  it  because  I'm  an  old 
woman.  We  old  women  know  a  great  deal  more  than  people 
give  us  credit  for.  You  are  a  soldier,  so  was  your  father,  so 
was  his  father,  so  was  mine,  so  was  our  Royal  founder.  We 
were  born  to  lead — the  common  people  expect  it  from  us.  It 
is  our  duty.  Do  you  not  remember  in  the  chronicles  of  Frois- 
sart — {with  great  enjoyment') — I  think  I  can  quote  it  word  for 
word.  I've  a  wonderful  memory  for  my  age.  (  With  closed 
eyes.)  It  was  in  the  59th  chapter  how  Godefroy  D'Alroy  helde 
the  towne  of  St.  Amande  during  the  siege  before  Tournay.  It 
said  the  towne  was  not  closed  but  with  pales,  and  captayne 
there  was  Sir  Amory  of  Pauy,  the  Seneschall  of  Carcassonne, 
who  had  said  it  was  not  able  to  holde  agaynste  an  hooste,  when 
one  Godefroy  D'Alroy  say'd  that  rather  than  he  vvoulde  depart, 
he  woulde  keep  it  to  the  best  of  his  power.  Whereat  the  sol- 
diers cheered  and  say'd  "Lead  us  on.  Sir  Godefroy,"  and  then 
began  a  fierce  assault,  and  they  within  were  chased,  and  sought 
for  shelter  from  streete  to  streete,  but  Godefroy  stayed  at  the 
gate  so  valyantly,  that  the  soldiers  helde  the  towne  until  the 
commynge  of  the  Earl  of  Haynault  with  twelve  thousand  men. 

Geo.  I  wish  she'd  go.  If  she  once  gets  on  to  Froissart 
she'll  never  know  when  to  stop.     {Aside.) 

Mar.  When  my  boy  fights,  and  you  will  fight  over  there, 
he  is  sure  to  distinguish  himself;  it  is  his  nature  to.  {Toys 
with  his  hair.)  He  cannot  forget  his  birth,  and  when  you 
meet  these  Asiatic  ruffians  who  have  dared  to  revolt  and  to 
outrage  humanity,  you  will  strike  as  your  ancestor  Galtier  of 
Chevrault  struck  at  Poictiers.  Froissart  mentions  it  thus: 
"Sir  Galtier  with  his  four  squires  was  in  the  front  of  that 
battell,  and  there  did  marvels  in  arms,  and  Sir  Galtier  rode  up 
to  the  Prince  and  said  to  him,  '  Sir,  take  your  horse  and  ride 
forth,  this  journey  is  yours ;  God  is  this  day  in  your  hands, 
Gette  us  to  the  French  Kynge's  batayle.  I  think  verily  by  his 
valyantesse  he  woll  not  fly.  Advance  banner  in  the  name  of 
God  and  of  Saynt  George,'  and  Galtier  gallopped  forward  to 
see  his  Kynge's  victory  and  meet  his  own  death." 

Geo.     If  Esther  hears  all  this  !     {Aside.) 

Mar.  There  is  another  subject  about  which  I  should  have 
spoken  to  you  before  this,  but  an  absurd  prudery  forbade  me. 
I  may  never  see  you  more.     I  am  old,  and  you  are  going  into 


30  -  CASTE 

battle  (kissing  his  forehead  with  emotion'),  and  this  maybe  our 
last  meeting.  (^Exclamation  is  heard  outside  folding  doors.) 
What's  that? 

Geo.     Nothing.     My  man — Dixon — in  there. 

Mar.  We  may  not  meet  again  on  this  earth.  I  do  not 
fear  your  conduct,  my  George,  with  men,  but  I  know  the  temp- 
tations that  beset  a  youth  who  is  well  born  ;  but  a  true  soldier, 
a  true  gentleman,  should  not  only  be  without  fear  but  without 
reproach.  It  is  easier  to  fight  a  famous  man  than  to  forego  the 
conquest  of  a  love-sick  girl.  A  thousand  Sepoys  slain  in  battle 
cannot  redeem  the  honor  of  a  man  who  has  betrayed  the  confi- 
dence of  a  confiding  woman.  Think,  George,  what  a  dis- 
honor, what  a  stain  upon  your  manhood,  to  hurl  a  girl  to 
shame  and  degradation,  and  what  excuse  for  it  ?  That  she  is 
plebeian  !  A  man  of  real  honor  will  spare  the  woman  who  has 
confessed  her  love  for  him,  as  he  would  give  quarter  to  an 
enemy  he  had  disarmed.  (^Takes  his  hand.)  Let  my  boy 
avoid  the  snares  so  artfully  spread,  and  when  he  asks  his 
mother  to  welcome  the  woman  he  has  chosen  for  his  wife,  let 
me  take  her  to  my  arms  and  plant  a  motherly  kiss  upon  the 
white  brow  of  a  lady.  (Noise  of  a  fall  heard  outside  folding 
doors.     Mar.  rises.)     What's  that? 

Geo.     Nothing!      {Rises.) 

Mar.  I  heard  a  cry.  (^Goes  up  stage  and  throws  open 
folding  doors,  discovering  Esther  lying  on  floor,  with  Polly 
kneeling  over  her.) 

Pol.     George !    George ! 

(George  goes  up  and  raises  Esther  in  his  arms  ;  Polly  goes 
down  L.  and  wheels  easy  chair  up  L.  for  her ;  George 
places  Esther  ///  chair,  George  o?i  her  r.,  Polly  oji 
her  l.) 

Mar.   (coming  down,  r.).     Who  are  these  women  ? 

Pol.     Women ! 

Mar.  George  D'Alroy,  these  persons  should  have  been  sent 
away.  How  could  you  dare  to  risk  your  mother  meeting 
women  of  their  stamp  ? 

Pol.  (back,  l.  c,  violently).  What  does  she  mean?  How 
dare  she  call  us  women?     What's  she,  I'd  like  to  know? 

Geo.     Silence,  Polly.     You  mustn't  insult  my  mother. 

Mar.  The  insult  is  from  you.  I  leave  you,  and  I  hope 
that  time  may  induce  me  to  forget  this  scene  of  degradation. 
(Goes  up  R.) 


CASTE  31 

Geo.  Stay,  mother.  (Marquise  goes  doiv?i  a  little,  r.) 
Before  you  go  let  me  present  to  you  Mrs.  George  D'Alroy,  my 
wife. 

(George  has  raised  Esther  from  chair  in  both  ar??is  and 
supports  her  to  up  c.) 

Mar.     Married  ! 
Geo.     Married. 

(^The  Marquise  sinks  into  easy  chair,  r.  George  replaces 
Esther  in  easy  chair  up  l.,  but  still  retains  her  hand. 
Two  hesitatijig  taps  heard  at  door  r.  c.  Eccles  enters 
sneakingly.') 

Ecc.  They  told  us  to  come  up-stairs.  When  your  man 
came,  Polly  was  out,  so  I  thought  I  should  do  instead.  {Calls 
at  door.)     Come  up,  Sam. 

Enter  Sam  in  his  Sunday  clothes  and  smoking  a  cheroot ;  he 
7iods  and  grins. 

Ecc.  Sam  had  just  called,  so  we  three,  Sam  and  I,  and 
your  man,  all  came  in  a  hansom  cab  together.  Didn't  we, 
Sam  ? 

(EccLES  and  Sam  go  over  to  the  girls,  l.) 

Mar.  (with  glasses  up,  to  George).     Who  is  this? 
Geo.   {coming  do2un  l.  of  Marquise).     My  wife's  father. 

(EccLES  comes  down  smilingly,  l.) 

Mar.     What  is  he  ? 

Geo.     a — nothing. 

Ecc.  I  am  one  of  Nature's  noblemen.  Happy  to  see  you, 
my  lady.  {Crosses  to  her.)  Now  my  daughter's  told  me  who 
you  are,  (George  titrns  his  back  in  an  agony)  we  old 
folks,  father  and  mother  of  the  young  couple,  ought  to  make 
friends.     {Holds  out  his  dirty  hand.) 

Mar.  {shrinki?ig  back).     Go  away.     What's  his  name? 

(EccLES  goes  up  again  disgusted,  L.) 

Geo.     Eccles. 

Mar.  Eccles  !  Eccles  !  There  never  was  an  Eccles.  He 
don't  exist. 

Ecc.  {coming  down,  l.).  Don't  he?  What  d'ye  call  this? 
{Goes  up  again,  L.,  and  speaks  to  Sam.) 


32  CASTE 

Mar.  No  Eccles  was  ever  born. 

Geo.  He  takes  the  liberty  of  breathing,  notwithstanding. 

{Aside.')  And  I  wish  he  wouldn't. 

Mar.  And  who  is  the  little  matt  ?     Is  he  also  Eccles  ? 

(Sam  looks  round ;  Polly  gets  close  up  to  him,  and  looks  with 
defiant  glance  at  the  Marquise.) 

Geo.  No. 

Mar.  Thank  goodness  !     What,  then  ? 

Geo.  His  name  is  Gerridge. 

Mar.  Gerridge!     It  breaks  one's  teeth.     Why  is  he  here? 

Geo.  He  is  making  love  to  Polly,  my  wife's  sister. 

Mar.  And  what  is  he? 

Geo.  a  gasman. 

Mar.  He  looks  it !  (George  goes  up  to  Esther,  l.)  And 
what  is  the — the  sister  ? 

(Eccles,  who  has  been  casting  longing  eyes  at  the  decanter  on 
table,  edges  toward  it  and  ivhen  he  thifiks  no  one  is  ?iotic- 
ing,  fills  wine  glass.) 

Pol.  (asserting  herself  indignantly).  I'm  in  the  ballet  at 
the  Theatre  Royal,  Lambeth — so  was  Esther.  We're  not 
ashamed  of  what  we  are.     We  have  no  cause  to  be. 

Sam  (back,  l.  c).  That's  right,  Polly,  pitch  into  the  swells. 
Who  are  they?     (Goes  up  a  little.) 

(Eccles  by  this  time  has  seized  wine  glass  and  turning  his 
back  is  about  to  drink,  tvhen  Hawtree  enters  door,  r.  c.  ; 
Eccles  hides  glass  under  his  coat,  and  pretends  to  be  look- 
ing up  at  picture.) 

Haw.  (entering).  George !  (Stops  suddenly,  looking 
rotmd.)     So  all's  known. 

Mar.  (rising).  Captain  Hawtree,  see  me  to  my  carriage. 
(Hawtree  comes  dotvn.)  I  am  broken-hearted.  (Takes 
Hawtree' s  arm,  crosses,  is  going  up.) 

(Eccles,  who  simultaneously  has  tasted  the  claret,  spits  it  out 
again  with  a  gri?nace,  exclaiming,  ^^Rot.^'  Esther  rises 
from  chair  in  tiervous  excitement,  clutching  George's 
ha  fid.) 


CASTE  33 

Geo.  (Jo  Marquise).  Don't  go  in  anger.  You  may  not 
see  me  again. 

(Marquise  stops,  r.  ;  Esther  brings  George  do7vn  c. 

Est.  (l.  c,  with  arm  round  his  neck).  Oh  !  George,  must 
you  go  ? 

Geo.     Yes. 

Est.     I  can't  leave  you — I'll  go  with  you. 

Geo.     Impossible,  the  country  is  too  unsettled. 

Est.     May  I  come  after  you  ? 

Geo.     Yes. 

Est.  {with  her  head  on  his  shoulder').     I  may  ! 

Mar.  {coming  down,  r.).  It  is  his  duty  to  go — his  honor 
calls  him.     The  honor  of  his  family — our  honor  ! 

Est.     But  I  love  him  so.     Pray  don't  be  angry  with  me. 

Haw.  {looking  at  watch  and  coming  down  c).     George  ! 

Geo.     I  must  go,  love. 

(Hawtree  goes  up  r.  c.) 

Mar.  {advancing).  Let  me  arm  you,  George — let  your 
mother,  as  in  the  days  of  old.  There  is  blood  and  blood,  my 
son,  let  Radicals  and  rebels  rave  as  they  will — see,  your  wife 
cries,  when  she  should  be  proud  of  you. 

WARN  cttftain. 

Geo.  My  Esther  is  all  that  is  true,  good,  and  noble.  No 
lady  born  to  a  coronet  could  be  gentler  or  more  true.  Esther, 
my  wife,  fetch  me  my  sword,  and  buckle  my  belt  round  me. 
(  Whispers  to  Esther.)  It  will  please  my  mother.  {To  Mar- 
quise at  R.)  You  shall  see.  (Esther  totters  up  stage,  l., 
and  brings  dotvn  his  sword,  Polly  his  cap  ;  as  Esther  is  try- 
ing to  buckle  his  belt  he  ivhispers.)  I've  left  money  for  you, 
my  darling.  My  lawyer  will  call  on  you  to-morrow.  Forgive 
me ;  I  tried  to  tell  you  we  were  ordered  for  India,  but  when  the 
time  came  my  heart  failed  me  and  I 

RING  cwftain. 

(Esther,  before  she  can  succeed  in  fastetiing  his  s7vord belt,  reels 
and  falls  fainting  in  his  arms.  Polly  hurries  to  her,  L., 
and  takes  her  hand.  Sam  stands  at  piano  looking  fright- 
ened ;  Eccles  at  back  very  little  concerned ;  Hawtree 


34  CASTE 

with  hand  upon  handle  of  door,  r.  f.,  ^«</ Marquise  look- 
ing on  R.  of  George.) 

CURTAIN 

{JFor  call,  Esther  in  chair  fainting — Polly  a?id  Sam  each 
side  of  her  holding  her  hands — the  folding  doors,  l.  c, 
thrown  open  and  Eccles  sta7iding  7vithin  holding  up  bottle 
of  bratidy  to  the  light,  with  triumphant  griti  on  his  face.) 


ACT  III 


Scene. — The  room  i?i  Stangate,  as  in  Act  I.  Piano  in  place 
of  bureau  at  l.  Map  of  India,  sword  knot  and  s7Vord, 
cap  and  spurs  hangi?ig  over  ma?itel.  Bandbox  on  table, 
L.  c,  with  ballet  dress  in  it.  Slate  and  peficil  beside  it. 
Cradle  up  stage,  L.  C. 

(Polly  discovered,  dressed  in  black,  seated  at  table,  R.  corner 
of  it — she  is  placing  the  skirt  in  bandbox  as  curtain 
rises.) 

LIGHTS  full  up. 
Pol.  (singing  as  curtain  rises). 

"And  she  watched  his  department  with  anguish, 
While  the  tears  down  in  torrents  did  roll." 

(Places  skirt  in  box  and  leans  her  chin  upo?i  her  hand). 
There,  there's  the  dress  for  poor  Esther  in  case  she  gets  the  en- 
gagement, which  I  don't  suppose  she  will ;  it's  too  good  luck, 
and  good  luck  never  comes  to  her,  poor  thing.  (Rises  and 
goes  up  to  cradle,  up  c, )  Baby's  asleep  still.  How  good  he 
looks,  as  good  as  if  he  were  dead,  like  his  poor  father,  and  alive 
too  at  the  same  time,  hke  his  dear  self.  Oh,  dear  me,  it's  a 
strange  world.  (Sits  again  as  before,  feeling  ifi  pocket  for 
money.)  Four  and  elevenpence;  that  must  do  for  to-day  and 
to-morrow.  Esther's  going  to  bring  in  the  rusks  for  Georgie. 
(Takes  up  slate.)  Three,  five,  eight  and  four,  twelve,  one 
shilling.  Um,  father  can  only  have  twopence ;  he  must  make 
do  with  that  till  Saturday,  when  I  get  my  salary.  If  Esther 
gets  the  engagement  I  shan't  have  any  more  salaries  to  take.     I 


CASTE  35 

shall  leave  the  stage  and  retire  into  private  life.  I  wonder  if  I 
shall  like  private  life,  and  if  private  life  will  like  me.  It  will  seem 
so  strange  being  no  longer  Miss  Mary  Eccles — Mary  Eccles — 
but  Mrs.  Samuel  Gerridge.  (^Writes  it  on  slate. ~)  Mrs.  Sam- 
uel Gerridge.  (^Laughs  bashfully.)  La!  To  think  of  my  being 
Mrs.  Anybody.  How  annoyed  Susan  Smith  will  be.  (  Writes 
on  slate.)  Mrs.  Samuel  Gerridge  presents  her  compliments  to 
Miss  Susan  Smith,  and  Mrs.  Samuel  Gerridge  requests  the  favor 
of  Miss  Susan  Smith's  company  to  tea  on  Tuesday  evening  next, 
at   Mrs.    Samuel  Gerridge's   house.     {Pause.')     Poor    Susan  ! 

(^Begins  again.)     P.  S.,  Mrs.  Samuel  Gerridge {Knock 

heard  at  room  door  up  R.     Polly  starts.) 

Sam  (outside).     Polly,  open  the  door. 

Pol.     Sam!     {Wipes  out  note  on  slate.)     Come  in. 

Sam  {without).     I  can't, 

Pol.     Why  not  ? 

Sam.     I've  got  something  on  my  head. 

(Polly  rises  and  opens  door  r.  Sam  enters,  carrying  a  small 
table  on  his  head ;  he  has  a  rule  pocket  in  corduroys  ;  rule 
seen.) 

Pol.   {cofnifig down  c).     What's  that?     {Shuts  door.) 
Sam.     Furniture.     [Goes  doivnR.,  and  deposits  table.)    How 
are  you,  my  Polly?     {Kisses  her.)     Bless  you,  you  look  hand- 
somer than  ever  this  morning.     {Dances  and  sings.) 

Fiddle-ti-tum  de  di  do 

Fiddle-ti-dum  de  day 
Fiddle-ti-tum  de  di  do 

Toddle-rum-a  day, 

Pol.   (l.).     What's  the  matter,  Sam,  are  you  mad  ?     {Sits.) 

Sam.     No,  happy ;  much  the  same  thing. 

Pol.     Where  have  you  been  these  two  days? 

Sam.  That's  just  what  I'm  going  to  tell  you„  Polly,  my 
pet,  my  brightest  batswing  and  most  brilliant  burner,  what  do 
you  think?     [Crosses  L.,  and  leans  over  to  kiss  her.') 

Pol,  {pushing  him  away).  Oh,  do  go  on,  Sam,  or  I'll  slap 
your  face. 

Sam  (r,).  Well,  you've  heard  me  speak  of  old  Binks  the 
plumber,  and  glazier,  and  gasfitter,  who  died  six  months  ago? 

Pol.     Yes. 

Sam.     I've  bought  his  business.     {Sits  on  table.) 


36  CASTE 

Pol.     No  ! 

Sam.  Yes,  of  his  widow,  Mrs.  Biiiks.  So  much  down,  so 
much  more  at  the  end  of  the  year.  (^Imitates  dancing  with  his 
feet  dangling  as  he  sits  on  table,  R.  Sings. ^  Ri  ti  toodle, 
roodle  oodle.     Ri  ti  tooral  ororal  lay. 

Pol.     La,  Sam  ! 

Sam  (gesticulating).  Yes,  I've  bought  the  good-will,  fix- 
tures, fittings,  stock,  rolls  of  gas  pipe,  and  sheets  of  lead. 
(Swings  round  on  table  to  face  Polly.)  I  am  a  tradesman  with 
a  shop,  a  master  tradesman.  (Polly  rises  and  crosses  to  table 
with  slate  under  her  arm — leans  against  front  of  table.  Sam 
swings  round  beside  her  and  puts  his  arm  round  her.)  All 
I  want  to  complete  the  premises  is  a  missus.  (Tries  to  kiss 
her  ;  she  slaps  his  face. ) 

Pol.     Sam,  don't  be  foolish  ! 

Sam.  Come  and  be  Mrs.  Sam  Gerridge,  Polly,  my  patent 
safety  day  and  night  light.     You'll  furnish  me  completely. 

(Polly  looks  slyly  at  slate.  Sam  snatches  it  up  and  looks  at 
it;  she  snatches  it  from  him  tvith  a  shriek  and  rubs  out 
writing  as  he  chases  up  stage — catches  her  tip  c,  kisses 
her,  comes  down  r.  c.  with  her.') 

Pol.   (r.  c).     Only  to  think  ! 

Sam.  I  spent  all  yesterday  looking  up  furniture.  I  bought 
that  at  a  bargain.  (  Opens  drawer  of  table,  R.)  And  I  brought 
it  to  show  you  for  your  approval.  Fve  bought  lots  of  other 
things,  and  I'll  bring  'em  all  here  to  show  you  for  your  ap- 
proval. 

Pol.     I  couldn't  think  what  had  become  of  you. 

Sam.  I-ook  here.  (Produces  patterns  of  paper.)  I  want 
you  to  choose  the  pattern  for  the  back  parlor  behind  the  shop. 
I'll  new  paper  it  and  new  paint  it,  and  new  furnish  it.  It  shall 
be  all  bran  new. 

Pol.   (l.  of  table).     But  won't  it  cost  a  lot  of  money,  Sam  ? 

Sam.  I  can  work  for  it.  With  customers  in  the  shop,  and 
you  in  the  back  parlor,  I  can  work  like  fifty  men.  (Sits  on 
table,  R.  C,  7vith  arm  roundFohLV.)  Only  fancy  at  night  when 
the  shop's  closed  and  the  shutters  are  up,  counting  out  the  till 
together.  Besides,  that  isn't  all  I've  done;  I've  been  writing, 
and  what  I've  written  I've  got  printed, 

Pol.     No  ! 

Sam.     True. 


CASTE  37 

Pol.     You've  been  writing  about  me.     {Delighted.) 

Sam.  No,  about  the  shop.  (Pollv  disgusted.)  Here  it  is. 
{Takes  roll  of  circulars  from  pocket.)  You  mustn't  laugh; 
you  know  it's  ray  first  attempt.  I  wrote  it  the  night  before  last, 
and  when  I  thought  of  you,  Polly,  the  words  seemed  to  flow 
like  red  hot  solder.  {Reads.)  "  Sam  Gerridge  takes  this  op- 
portunity of  informing  the  nobility,  gentry,  and  inhabitants  of 
the  Borough  Road  " — you  know  there's  not  many  of  the 
nobility  and  gentry  live  in  the  Borough  Road;  but  it  pleases 
the  inhabitants  to  make  'em  believe  you  think  so — "of  inform- 
ing the  nobility,  gentry,  and  inhabitants  of  the  Borough  Road, 
and  its  vicinity  " — that's  rather  good,  I  think  ?    {Looks  at  her.) 

Pol.     Yes ;  I've  heard  worse. 

Sam.  1  first  thought  of  saying  neighborhood,  but  I  thought 
vicinity  sounded  more  genteel.  "And  its  vicinity,  that  he  has 
entered  upon  the  business  of  the  late  Mr.  Binks,  his  relict,  the 
present  Mrs.  B.,  having  disposed  to  him  of  the  same."  Now 
listen,  Polly,  because  it  gets  interesting — "  S.  G. " 

Pol.     S.  G.     Who's  he  ? 

Sam.  Me,  S.  G.,  Samuel  Gerridge,  me — us — we're  S.  G. 
Don't  interrupt  me  or  you'll  cool  my  metal  and  then  I  can't 
work.  "  S.  G.  hopes  by  a  constant  attention  to  business  and  " 
— mark  this — "  by  supplying  the  best  articles  at  the  most  rea- 
sonable prices,  to  merit  a  continuance  of  those  favors  which  it 
will  ever  be  his  constant  study  to  deserve."  There  !  {Turns 
on  table  to  R.,  triu/iiphantly.)  Stop  a  bit — there's  more  yet — 
"bell-hanging,  gas-fitting,  plumbing  and  glazing  as  usual." 
I'here — it's  all  my  own.  {Tuts  circular  on  mantelpiece,  crosses 
R.,  then  stands  back  to  contemplate  it,  his  arm  still  romid 
Polly's  waist.)     And  now,  Polly,  I'll  go — I  shall  go  and  send 

some {Takes   his  table  up  r.  ;   postman's  knock.)      If 

there  ain't  the  postman  !      {Goes  off  i<.  d. — leaves  table — and 
returns  with  letter.) 

Pol.  (c,  taking  it).  Oh!  for  Esther.  I  know  who  it's 
from.  {Places  letter  on  mantelpiece,  L.  ;  seriously.)  Sam, 
who  do  you  think  was  here  last  night  ? 

Sam.     Who  ? 

Pol.     Captain  Hawtree.      {Comes  across,  L.  c.) 

Sam.  {depreciatingly).  Oh,  come  back  from  India,  I 
suppose  ? 

Pol.     Yes ;  luckily  Esther  was  out.     {Sits  u  of  table.) 

Sam.  I  never  liked  that  long  swell.  He  was  an  uppish, 
conceited 


38  CASTE 

Pol.  Oh,  he's  better  than  he  used  to  be.  He's  a  major 
now.     He's  only  been  in  England  a  fortnight. 

Sam  (l.).     Did  he  tell  you  anything  about  poor  D'Alroy? 

Pol.  {leaning  on  table).  Yes;  he  said  he  was  riding  out 
not  far  from  the  cantonment,  and  was  surrounded  by  a  troop 
of  Sepoy  cavalry,  which  took  him  prisoner  and  galloped  off 
with  him. 

Sam.     But  about  his  death  ? 

Pol.  Oh  !  (^Hides  her  face  J)  Oh  !  that,  he  said,  was 
believed  to  be  too  terrible  to  mention. 

Sam.     Did  he  tell  you  anything  else? 

Pol.  No;  he  asked  a  lot  of  questions,  and  I  told  him 
everything.  How  poor  Esther  had  taken  her  widowhood,  and 
what  a  dear  good  baby  the  baby  was,  and  what  a  comfort  to  us 
all,  and  how  Esther  had  come  back  to  live  with  us  again. 

Sam.     And  the  reason  for  it  ? 

Pol.  (jioddi/ig  her  head  sadly).     Yes, 

Sam.  How  your  father  got  the  money  that  was  left  for 
Esther  ? 

Pol.     Don't  say  any  more  about  that,  Sam. 

Sam.  I  only  think  Captain  Hawtree  ought  to  know  where 
the  money  did  go,  and  that  you  shouldn't  screen  your  father 
and  let  him  suppose  that  you  and  Esther  spent  it  all. 

Pol.     I  told  him. 

Sam.  Did  you  tell  him  that  your  father  was  always  at  har- 
monic meetings,  at  taverns,  and  had  half-cracked  himself  by 
drink,  and  was  always  singing  the  songs  and  making  the 
speeches  that  he  heard  there,  and  that  he  was  always  going  on 
about  his  wrongs  as  one  of  the  working  classes?  He's  a  pretty 
one  for  one  of  the  working  classes — he  is  !  Hasn't  done  a 
stroke  of  work  these  twenty  years.  Now,  I  am  one  of  the 
working  classes,  but  I  don't  howl  about  it.  I  only  work  and  I 
don't  spout.      [Goes  up  c,  and  comes  dow?i  agahi.) 

Pol.  Hold  your  tongue,  Sam.  I  won't  have  you  say  any 
more  against  poor  father.  He  has  his  faults,  but  he's  a  very 
clever  man. 

Sam  (sighing).     Oh  !     What  else  did  Captain  Hawtree  say? 

Pol.     He  advised  us  to  apply  to  Mr.  D'Alroy's  mother. 

Sam.     The  Marquissy  ?     And  what  did  you  say  ? 

Pol.  I  said  that  Esther  wouldn't  hear  of  it,  and  so  the 
Major  said  that  he'd  write  to  Esther,  and  I  suppose  this  is  the 
letter. 

Sam.     Now,  Polly,  come  and  choose  the  paper.     (Goes  up  c.) 


CASTE  39 

Pol.  {rising).  Can't;  who's  to  mind  baby?  (JJp  stage 
to  cradle.^ 

Sam  {at  window).  There's  your  father  passmg;  won't  he 
mind  him? 

Pol.  {at  window  with  Sam).  I  daresay  he  will.  If  I  prom- 
ise him  an  extra  sixpence  on  Saturday.  {Taps  at  window.) 
Hi  !    Father ! 

Sam  {aside).  He  looks  down  in  the  mouth.  I  suppose  he's 
had  no  drink.     {Goes  dowti  R.) 

Enter  Eccles  in  shabby  black  ;  taking  half  circle  of  stage,  he 
sits  before  fire,  l. 

Pol.     Come  in  to  stop  a  bit,  father?     {Down  c.) 

Ecc.  No,  not  for  long.  Good -morning,  Samuel.  Going 
back  to  work — that's  right,  my  boy.  Stick  to  it !  {Pokes 
fire.)     Stick  to  it !     Nothing  like  it ! 

Sam  {down  r.  c.  ;  aside).  Now  isn't  that  too  bad?  {Aloud.) 
No,  Mr.  Eccles,  I've  knocked  off  for  the  day. 

Ecc.  {ivaving  poker).  That's  bad — that's  bad.  Nothing 
like  work  for  the  young.  I  don't  work  so  much  as  I  used  to 
myself;  but  I  like  to  see  the  young  uns  at  it.  It  does  me 
good,  and  it  does  them  good  too.  What  does  the  poet  say? 
{Gesticulates  with  poker.) 

"A  carpenter  said,  tho'  that  was  well  spoke, 
It  was  better  by  far  to  defend  it  with  oak; 
A  currier,  wiser  than  both  put  together, 
Said,  say  what  you  will  there  is  nothing  like  labor. 
For  a'  that,  an'  a'  that. 
Your  ribbon,  gown,  and  a'  that; 
The  rank  is  but  the  guinea  stamp, 
The  working  man's  the  gold  for  a'  that." 

{Triumphantly    wags   his    head.     Polly    crosses    to  him  to 
quiet  him.) 

Sam  {aside).     This  is  the  sort  of  public-house  loafer  that 

wants  the  wages  and  no  work,  an  idle  old {Goes  up  i?i 

disgust. ) 

Pol.  {on  Eccles'  l.).  Esther  will  be  in  by  and  by.  Do, 
father. 

Ecc.     No,  no,  I  tell  you  I  won't. 

Pol.  {whispering ;  arm  around  his  neck).  And  I'll  give 
you  sixpence  extra  on  Saturday. 


40  CASTE 

Ecc.  Oh  !  Very  well.  (Polly  gets  hat  and  cloak  from 
peg  up  R.)  Oh,  you  puss,  you  know  how  to  get  over  your 
poor  old  father. 

Sam  (aside).     Yes ;   with  sixpence. 

Pol.  (putting  on  bonnet ;  Eccles  looks  at  clock).  Give 
the  cradle  a  rock  if  baby  cries,  father. 

Ecc.     Twenty  minutes  ! 

Sam.  If  you  should  want  employment  or  amusement,  Mr. 
Eccles,  cast  your  eye  over  that.  (Gives  him  circular  and 
exit  with  Polly,  r.  ;  Eccles  lights  pipe  afid  statids  with  back 
to  fire,  smoking  vigorously  ;  a  pause.) 

Ecc.  Poor  Esther !  nice  market  she's  brought  her  pigs 
to.  Ugh  !  Mind  the  baby  indeed ;  what  good  is  he  to  me  ? 
That  fool  of  a  girl  to  throw  away  all  her  chances — a  honor- 
abless — and  her  father  not  to  have  on  him  the  price  of  a  pint 
of  early  beer  or  a  quartern  of  cool  refreshing  gin ;  stopping  in 
here  to  rock  a  young  honorable.  (Up  to  cradle  and  looks  in.) 
Cuss  him  !    (JRocks  cradle.)    Are  we  slaves,  we  working  men? 

(Sings  savagely.)     Britons  never,  never,  never  shall  be 

(Dashes  pipe  into  fireplace,  and  going  doiun,  sits  at  etid  of 
table,  L.  of  it;  nods  his  head  sagaciously ;  hands  in  his 
trousers  pockets.)  However,  I  won't  stand  this  much  longer; 
I've  writ  to  the  old  cat,  I  mean  to  the  Marquissy,  to  tell  her 
that  her  daughter-in-law  and  her  grandson  is  almost  starving. 
That  fool  Esther,  too  proud  to  write  to  her  for  money.  I  hate 
pride,  it's  beastly  !  (Rises.)  There's  no  beastly  pride  about 
me.  (Goes  up  r.  of  table,  smacking  his  lips.)  I'm  as  dry  as 
a  lime  kiln.  (Crosses  to  mantelpiece  and  takes  up  dram 
bottle.)  Empty.  (Replaces  it ;  takes  up  fug  from  table.) 
Milk.  (With  disgust.)  For  this  young  aristocratic  pauper; 
everybody  in  the  house  is  sacrificed  for  him.  (At  foot  of 
cradle,  R.  c,  7vith  hands  on  chair  back.)  And  to  think 
that  a  working  man,  and  a  member  of  the  Committee  of 
the  Banded  Brothers  for  the  regeneration  of  human  kind  by 
means  of  equal  diffusion  of  intelligence  and  equal  division  of 

property  should    be   thirsty  while   this   cub (Looks   at 

child — after  a  pause.)  That  there  coral  he's  got  round  his 
neck  is  gold,  real  gold.  Oh  !  society  !  Oh  !  Government  ! 
Oh  !  Class  Legislature — is  this  right?  Shall  this  mindless 
wretch  enjoy  himself  while  sleeping  with  a  jewelled  gaud,  and 
his  poor  old  grandfather  wants  the  price  of  half-pint?  No,  it 
shall  not  be.  Rather  than  see  it  I  will  myself  resent  this  out- 
rage on  the  rights  of  man,  and  in  this  holy  crusade  of  class 


CASTE  41 

against  class,  of  weak  and  lowly  against  the  powerful  and  the 
strong  (^pointing  to  child),  I  will  strike  one  blow  for  freedom. 
[Goes  behind  cradle  and  leans  over  it.)  He's  asleep.  It  will 
fetch  ten  bob  round  the  corner,  and  if  the  Marquissy  gives  us 
anything  it  can  be  got  out  with  some  o'  that.  {Steals  coral.) 
Lie  still,  my  darling.  {^Rocks  the  cradle.)  It's  grandfather's 
a- watching  you  !     {Puts  coral  in  his  pocket.) 

"  Who  ran  to  catch  me  when  I  fell, 
And  kicked  the  place  to  make  it  well  — 
My  grandfather. ' ' 

(Steals  toward  door.  As  he  is  going  off  R.  3  E.,  enter 
Esther  at  that  door;  she  is  dressed  like  a  widoiv, 
pale  face,  and  her  manner  quick,  stern  and  imperious  ; 
she  carries  a  parcel  and  paper  bag  of  rusks  in  her  hand.) 

Ecc.  {starting  back  confused).     My  love  ! 

(Esther  passes  him,  puts  parcel  on  table,  goes  to  cradle,  kneels 
down  and  kisses  child.  Eccles  fumbles  with  the  lock 
nervously,  and  is  going  out  as  Esther  speaks.) 

Est.  My  Georgie  I  Where's  his  coral  ?  Gone  !  Father, 
— {rising;  Eccles  stopping)  the  coral  !     Where  is  it? 

Ecc.  {confused).     Where's  what? 

Est.  The  coral !  You've  got  it ;  I  know  it.  Give  it  me. 
{Quickly  and  imperiously.)  Give  it  me — give  it  me.  (Eccr.ES 
takes  coral  from  his  pocket  and  gives  it  back. )  If  you  dare  to 
touch  my  child  !      {Goes  to  cradle.) 

Ecc.  Esther,  am  I  not  your  father?  {Comes  doian  R. 
Esther  gets  round  table  to  L.  c.) 

Est.     And  I  am  his  mother. 

Ecc.  Do  you  bandy  words  with  me,  you  pauper,  to  whom 
I  have  given  shelter,  shelter  to  you  and  your  brat  ?  I've  a  good 
mind {Advances  to  her  with  clenched  fist.) 

Est.  {confronting  him).  If  you  dare!  I  am  no  longer  your 
little  drudge,  your  frightened  servant.  When  mother  died  and 
I  was  so  high,  I  tended  you,  and  worked  for  you,  and  you  beat 
me.  That  time  is  past.  I  am  a  woman,  I  am  a  wife,  a  widow,  a 
mother.  Do  you  think  I  will  let  you  outrage  him  ?  {Points  to 
cradle.)     Touch  me  if  you  dare  !      {Advances  a  step.) 

Ecc.  {bursting  into  tears).  And  this  is  my  own  child  which 
I  nursed  when  a  baby,  and  sung  cootchicum  cootchie  to  afore 


42  CASTE 

she  could  speak.  Honorable  Mrs.  D'Alroy,  I  forgive  you  for 
all  that  you  have  said.  In  everything  that  I  have  done  I've 
acted  with  the  best  intentions.  May  the  babe  in  that  cradle 
never  treat  you  as  you  have  tret  me — a  grey  'air'd  father.  May 
he  never  cease  to  love  and  //onor  you  as  you  have  ceased  to 
love  and  /zonor  me,  after  all  that  I've  done  for  you,  and  the 
position  to  which  I've  raised  you  by  my  own  industry.  May 
he  never  behave  to  you  like  the  bad  daughters  of  King  Lear ; 
and  may  you  never  live  to  feel  how  sharper  than  a  serpent's 
scales  it  is  to  have  a  toothless  child. 

Exit  solemnly,  r.  3  e. 

Est.  {kneeling  by  cradle^.  My  darling !  {Arranges  bed 
and  places  coral  to  the  babf  s  lips  arid  then  to  her  own.^ 
Mamma's  come  back  to  her  own.  Did  she  stay  away  from  him 
so  long?  {Rises  and  looks  at  the  sabre,  etc.^  My  George,  to 
think  you  never  can  look  upon  his  face,  nor  hear  his  voice ! 
My  brave  gallant,  and  handsome  husband  !  My  lion  and  my 
love!  {Comes  down  c,  pacing  the  stage.)  Oh!  to  be  a  sol- 
dier, and  to  fight  the  wretches  who  destroyed  him,  who  took 
my  darling  from  me  !  To  gallop  miles  upon  their  upturned 
faces!  {Crosses  L.,  with  action;  sees  letter.)  What's  this  ! 
Captain  Hawtree's  hand.  {Reads.)  "My  dear  Mrs.  D'Al- 
roy, I  returned  to  England  less  than  a  fortnight  ago.  I  have 
some  papers  and  effects  of  my  poor  friend's,  which  I  am  anxious 
to  deliver  to  you,  and  I  beg  of  you  to  name  a  day  when  I  can 
call  with  them  and  see  you.  At  the  same  time  let  me  express 
my  deepest  sympathy  with  your  affliction.  Your  husband's  loss 
was  mourned  by  every  man  in  the  regiment.  (Esther  over- 
come  for  a  tnoment,  wipes  her  eyes  and  goes  on.)  I  have 
heard  with  great  pain  of  the  pecuniary  embarrassments  into 
which  accident  and  the  imprudence  of  others  have  placed  you. 
I  trust  you  will  not  consider  me,  one  of  poor  George's  oldest 
comrades  and  friends,  either  intrusive  or  impertinent  in  sending 
the  enclosed — {she  takes  out  check) — and  in  hoping  that  should 
any  further  difficulties  arise  you  will  inform  me  of  them,  and 
remember  that  I  am,  dear  Mrs.  D'Alroy,  now  and  always,  your 
faithful  and  sincere  friend,  Arthur  Hawtree."  (Esther  ^^^^x 
to  cradle  and  bends  over  it.)     Oh,  his  boy,  if  you  could  read  it ! 

Enter  Polly,  r.  3  e. 

Pol.  {crossing  to  Esther  and  kissing  her  affectionately). 
Father  gone  ? 


CASTE  43 

Est.  Polly,  you  look  quite  flurried.  (Pollv  laughs  and 
whispers  to  Esther.  They  come  down  c.  together.  Esther 
near  head  of  table  takes  Polly  ///  lier  arms  and  kisses  her.') 
So  soon !  Well,  my  darling,  I  hope  you  may  be  happy. 
{Sobs.) 

Pol.  (crossing  L.  round  table  and  putting  rusks  i?i  sauce- 
pan). Sam  is  going  to  speak  to  father  to-day.  Did  you  see 
the  agent,  dear  ? 

Est.  (r.  of  table).  Yes;  the  manager  didn't  come,  he 
broke  his  appointment  again. 

Pol.   (l.  of  table).     Nasty  rude  fellow  ! 

Est.  {seated).  The  agent  said  it  didn't  matter.  He 
thought  I  should  get  the  engagement;  he'll  only  give  me  thirty 
shillings  a  week  though. 

Pol.     But  you  said  that  two  pounds  was  the  regular  salary. 

Est.  {handkerchief  to  eyes).  Yes,  but  they  know  I'm  poor, 
and  want  the  engagement,  and  so  take  advantage  of  me.  (  With 
her  handkerchief  to  her  eyes.) 

Pol.  I  put  the  dress  in  the  bandbox;  it  looks  almost  as 
good  as  new. 

Est.  (faking  dress  from  box  and  examining  it).  I've  had 
a  letter  from  Captain  Hawtree. 

Pol.     I  know,  dear,  he  came  here  last  night. 

Est.  a  dear,  good  letter,  speaking  of  George,  and  enclos- 
ing me  a  check  for  thirty  pounds. 

Pol.  (up  at  cupboard).  Oh,  how  kind  !  You  mustn't  let 
father  know  of  it.  (Comes  doivn  to  table  ;  noise  of  carriage 
7t)heels  without.) 

Est.     I  shan't. 

Enter   Eccles,    breathless ;    Esther  rises ;  Polly   runs   to 

windotv. 

Ecc.  (down  c).  It's  the  Marquissy  in  her  coach.  Now  be 
civil  to  her,  and  she  may  do  something  for  us ;  I  see  the  coach 
as  I  was  coming  from  the  Rainbow.  (At  door.)  This  way, 
my  lady;  up  them  steps;  they're  rather  awkward  for  anybody 
like  you,  but  them  as  is  poor  and  lowly  must  do  as  best  they 
can  with  steps  and  circumstances.  (Bows  obsequiously  as  he 
backs  fro?n  the  door.) 

(Esther  and  Polly  l.  at  end  of  table — enter  Marquise,  r. 
2  E.,  carrying  baby's  hood  and  cloak.  She  surveys  the 
place  contemptuously.  Esther  drops  the  costume  into 
bandbox  and  Polly  puts  the  lid  on  it. ) 


44  CASTE 

Mar.  (Jialf  aside,  going  doivn  r.).  What  a  hole  !  and  for 
my  grandson  to  breathe  such  an  atmosphere,  and  to  be  con- 
taminated by  such  associations.  (^To  Eccles,  wJw  is  a  little 
up  R.  c.)     Which  is  the  young  woman  who  married  my  son? 

Est.  {coldly).  I  am  Mrs.  D'Alroy,  widow  of  George  D'Al- 
roy.      Who  are  you  ? 

Mar.     I  am  his  mother,  the  Marquise  de  St.  Maur. 

Est.   {with  a  grand  air).     Be  seated,  I  beg. 

Mar.  {rejecting  chair  offered  servilely  by  EccLES,  and  look- 
ing round).     The  chairs  are  all  dirty. 

Enter  Sam,  r.  3  e.  ,  ivith  an  easy  chair  on  his  head,  which  he 
puts  do7vn,  not  seei?ig  Marquise,  who  ifistantly  sits  dozen 
in  it,  concealing  it  completely. 

Sam  {asto?iished,  r.  corner).  It's  the  Marquissy.  [Looks 
at  her.)  These  here  aristocrats  are  fine  women  though.  Plenty 
of 'em.      {Describes  circle  ;  to  VOLhW.)     Quality  and  quantity. 

Pol.  (l.  of  table  end).     Sam,  you'd  better  come  back. 

(Eccles  nudges  him  and  bustles  him  toward  door.) 

Sam  {going  toward  door,  aside).  She's  here.  What's  com- 
ing, I  wonder  ! 

Exit  Sam,  r.  3  e.     Eccles  shuts  door  on  him. 

Ecc.  [coming  doivn  r.  C,  rubbing  his  hands).  If  we'd 
a-know'd  your  ladyship  had  bin  a-coming  we'd  a-had  the  place 
cleaned  up  a  bit. 

Mar.   {to  Esther).     You  remember  me,  do  you  not? 

Est.  Perfectly,  though  I  only  saw  you  once.  [Seats  her- 
self with  dignity,  l.  c.)  May  I  ask  what  has  procured  me  the 
honor  of  this  visit  ? 

Mar.  I  was  informed  that  you  were  in  want  and  I  came 
here  to  offer  you  assistance. 

Est.  I  thank  you  for  your  offer,  and  the  delicate  consid- 
eration for  ray  feelings  with  which  it  is  made.  I  need  no 
assistance. 

Mar.  a  letter  I  received  last  night  informed  me  that  you 
did. 

Est.     May  I  ask  if  that  letter  came  from  Captain  Hawtree  ? 

Mar.      No,  from  this  person,  your  father,  1  think. 

Est.    [to  Eccles).     How  dare  you  interfere  in  my  affairs? 

Ecc.     My  love,  I  did  it  with  the  best  intentions. 


CASTE  45 

Mar.     Then  you  will  not  accept  assistance  from  me  ? 

Est.     No. 

Pol.  (aside  to  Esther,  holding  her  hand).  Bless  you,  my 
darling. 

Mar.  But  you  have  a  child — a  son — my  grandson.  (  Wilh 
e  mo  lion.') 

Est.     Master  D'Alroy  wants  for  nothing. 

Pol.     And  never  shall  ! 

Mar.  (showing  hood  atid  cloak).  I  came  here  to  propose 
that  my  grandson  should  go  back  with  me. 

Est.  (rising  defiantly).  What,  part  with  my  boy?  I'd 
sooner  die  ! 

Mar.  You  can  see  him  when  you  wish — as  fur  money 
I 

Est.  Not  for  ten  thousand  million  worlds — not  for  ten 
thousand  million  marchionesses. 

Ecc.  Better  do  what  the  good  lady  asks  you,  my  dear. 
She's  advising  you  for  your  good  and  for  the  child's  likewise. 

Mar.  Surely  you  cannot  intend  to  bring  up  my  son's  son 
in  a  place  like  this  ? 

(Esther  goes  up  c. ) 

Ecc.  It  is  a  poor  place,  and  we  are  poor  people,  sure^ 
enough.  We  ought  not  to  fly  in  the  faces  of  our  pastors  and  \ 
masters — our  pastoresses  and  mistresses. 

Pol.  Oh,  hold  your  tongue,  do.  (Goes  up  to  cradle; 
aside.)     I  should  like  to  fly  at  her. 

Est.  (before  cradle).  Master  George  D'Alroy  will  remain 
with  his  mother.  The  offer  to  take  him  from  her  is  an  insult 
to  his  dead  father  and  to  him. 

Ecc.     He  don't  seem  to  feel  it,  stuck  up  little  beast. 

Mar.  But  you  have  no  money.  How  can  you  rear  him? 
How  can  you  educate  him?     How  can  you  live? 

Est.  (tearing  dress  from  bandbox).  Turn  Columbine ! 
Go  on  the  stage  again  and  dance. 

Mar.  (rising).  You  are  insolent.  You  forget  that  I  am  a 
lady. 

Est.  You  forget  that  I  am  a  mother.  (Replaces  dress  in 
box.)  Do  you  dare  to  off'er  to  buy  my  child,  his  breathing 
image,  his  hving  memory,  with  money?  (Crosses  to  door  ^., 
and  throws  it  open.)     There  is  the  door.     Go  !      (Picture.) 

Ecc.  (to  Marquise,  who  has  risen).  Very  sorry,  my  lady, 
as  you  should  be  tret  in  this  way,  which  was  not  my  wishes. 


46  CASTE 

Mar.  Silence!  {Y^ozve.^  retreats,  ■^.,  putting  back  chair  ; 
Marquise  goes  up  to  door  k.).  Mrs.  D'Alroy,  if  anything  could 
have  increased  my  sorrow  for  the  wretched  marriage  my  poor 
son  was  decoyed  into,  it  would  be  your  conduct  this  day  to  his 
mother. 

Exit,  R.  3  E. 

Ecc.  {looking  after  her  at  door  R.  3  E.).  To  go  away  and 
not  leave  a  damned  penny  behind  her.  Cat !  cat !  stingy  cat ! 
{Crosses  to  fire  L.,  sits  and  pokes  It  violently  ;  carriage  wheels 
heard  ivlthout ;  Polly  goes  and  kisses  Esther  up  c.) 

Est.  Take  me  to  my  room.  I'll  lie  down.  Let  me  have 
the  baby  (Polly  takes  It  from  cradle)  or  that  old  woman  may 
come  back  and  steal  him. 

Exeunt  Esther  atid  Polly  with  the  baby,  r.  3  e. 

Ecc.  (rocking  in  chair  by  fire).  Well,  women  is  the  obsti- 
natest  devils  that  never  wore  horse  shoes.  {Strikes  table.) 
Children!  beasts!   beasts!     {Rattles fire  Irons.) 

Enter  Sam  and  Polly,  r.  3  e.      They  pause  up  r.  c. 

Sam.  I'll  tell  him  now  and  get  it  over  at  once.  {V01A.Y  conies 
down  to  table,  takes  bandbox  from  table  and  places  it  up  l. 
corner.  Sam  comes  down  R.  c.)  And  now,  Mr.  Eccles, 
since  you've  been  talking  on  family  affairs,  I'd  like  to  have  a 
word  with  you,  so  take  this  opportunity  to 

Ecc.  {raising  his  head  sharply).  Take  what  you  like  and 
then  order  more.  {Rises  and  down  l.)  Samuel  Gerridge, 
that  hand  is  a  hand  that  never  turned  its  back  on  a  friend  or  a 
bottle  to  give  him.  {Sings.)  I  will  stand  by  my  friend,  if 
he'll  stand  to  me,  me,  gentlemen. 

Sam.     Well,  Mr.  Eccles,  sir,  it's  this. 

Pol.  {aside  ;  coming  dotvn  R.  of  table).  Don't  tell  him  too 
sudden,  Sam,  it  might  shock  his  feelings.  {Goes  round  and 
sits  L.  of  table  end. ) 

Sam.  It's  this.  You  know  that  for  the  past  four  years  I've 
been  keeping  company  with  Mary — Polly. 

Ecc.  {sinking  into  chair).  Go  it,  go  it.  Strike  home, 
young  man,  strike  on  this  grey  head.  {Slugs.)  Britons,  strike 
home,  home.  Here  !  {Taps  his  chest.)  Here,  to  my  heart, 
don't  spare  me.  {Goes  c.  and  sits  in  big  chair  in  7vhich  the 
Marquise  sat.)  Have  a  go  at  my  grey  hairs.  Pull  'em,  pull 
'em  out,  a  long  pull,  a  strong  pull,  and  a  pull  all  together. 
{Cries  and  drops  his  face  In  his  hands.) 


CASTE  47 

Pol.  (at  l.  of  Eccles).  Oh,  father,  I  wouldn't  hurt  your 
feelings  for  the  world.     (^Hugs  and  kisses  him.') 

Sam  {crossing  to  R.  of  Eccles).  Mr.  Eccles,  I  wouldn't 
wish  to  annoy  you,  sir,  but  now  I'm  going  to  enter  upon  a  busi- 
ness.    Here's  a  circular.     {Gives  one.') 

Ecc.  {indignantly).  What  are  circulars  compared  to  a  fond 
father's  feelings? 

Sam.  And  I  wish  Polly  to  name  the  day,  sir,  and  so  I  ask 
you. 

Ecc.  This  is  'ard.  This  is  'ard.  This  is  ^ard.  One  o' 
my  gals  marries  a  so-dger,  the  other  goes  a  gasfitting. 

Sam.  The  business,  which  will  enable  me  to  maintain  a 
wife,  is  that  of  the  late  Mr.  Binks,  plumber,  glazier,  etc. 

Ecc.   (singing). 

They  have  given  thee  to  a  plumber  I 
They  have  broken  every  vow. 
They  have  given  thee  to  a  plumber. 
And  my  heart  is  breaking  now,  gentlemen, 
My  heart  is  breaking  now. 

Pol.     You  know,  father,  you  can  come  and  see  me. 

Ecc.  {ho/ding  out  his  hatid).  So  I  can  and  that's  a  com- 
fort {shaking  her  hand),  and  you  can  see  me,  and  that's  a 
comfort ;  I'll  come  and  see  you  often — every  day  {shaking 
Sam's  hand),  and  crack  a  fatherly  bottle,  and  shed  a  friendly 
tear.     {Rises  at  c.) 

Pol.     Do,  father,  do. 

Sam  {with  a  gulp) .     Yes,  Mr.  Eccles,  do  {aside)  not. 

Ecc.  I  will.  {He  takes  the  hand  of  each  and  goes  down 
ivith  them.)  And  this  it  is  to  be  a  father.  {Goes  to  bureau 
at  L.,  takes  hat,  puts  it  on  and  returns  C.)  I  would  part  with 
any  of  my  children  for  their  own  good  readily  if  I  was  paid  for 
it.  {Sings.)  "For  I  know  that  the  angels  are  whispering  to 
me  " — nie,  gentlemen. 

Sam.  I  will  make  Polly  a  good  husband,  and  anything  that 
I  can  do  to  prove  it  {lowering  his  voice)  in  the  way  of  spirit- 
uous liquors  and  tobacco  {slippitig  coin  into  his  hand  ufiseeti  by 
Polly)  shall  be  done. 

Ecc.   {lighting  up). 

"Be  kind  to  thy  father,  wherever  you  be. 
For  he  is  a  blessing  and  credit  to  thee — thee,  gentlemen." 


48  CASTE 

Well,  my  children,  bless  you  ;  take  the  blessing  of  a  grey- 
hair'd  father,  (Polly  sobs ;  Eccles  to  Sam.)  Samuel  Ger- 
ridge,  she  shall  be  thine.  You  shall  be  her  husband.  I  know 
of  no  gas-fitter  man.  [Looks  at  money.')  A  friend  is  await- 
ing for  me  outside  which  I  want  to  have  a  word  with  [up  r.), 
and  may  you  never  know  how  much  more  sharper  than  a  ser- 
pent's tooth  it  is  to  have  a  marriageable  daughter.     (Sings.) 

"When  I  heard  he  was  married, 
I  breathed  not  a  tone, 
The  h'eyes  of  all  round  me 
Was  fixed  on  my  own, 
I  flew  to  my  chamber 
To  hide  my  despair ; 
I  tore  the  bright  circlet 
Of  gems  from  my  hair, 
When  I  heard  she  was  married. 
When  I  heard  she  was 

Exit,  door  k.  3  E.  j  outside. 

Married,  gentlemen,  married." 

Pol.   (drying  her  eyes).     There,  Sam,  I  always  told  you  that 
though  father  had  his  faults  his  heart  was  in  the  right  place. 
Sam.     Poor  Polly  !   (Knock  at  r.  3  E. ;  Sam  sits  on  table  L.) 
Pol.     Come  in  ! 

Enter  Hawtree  ///  black,  r.  3  e.  Polly  goes  to  meet  him  ; 
Sam  rises  and  crosses  to  fireplace  at  l.,  and  stands  with 
back  to  it. 

Haw.  (r.  c).  I  met  the  Marquise's  carriage  on  the  bridge. 
Has  she  been  here? 

Pol.   (l.  c).     Yes. 

Haw.     What  happened  ? 

Pol.  Oh,  she  wanted  to  take  away  the  child.  (Crosses 
round  to  cupboard  up  l.,  and  business  of  preparifig for  tea.) 

S  \M.     In  the  coach. 

Haw.     And  what  did  Mrs.  D'Alroy  say  to  that  ? 

Sam.  Mrs.  D'Alroy  said  she'd  see  her  blow'd  first,  or  words 
to  that  effect. 

Haw.  I  am  sorry  to  hear  this.  I  had  hoped — however, 
tliat's  over. 


CASTE  49 

Pol.  Yes,  it's  over,  and  I  hope  we  shall  hear  no  more  about 
it.  Want  to  take  away  the  child  indeed  !  Like  her  impu- 
dence !  What  next !  {Puts  dishes  on  table.)  Esther's  gone 
to  lie  down.  I  shan't  wake  her  up  for  tea,  though  she's  had 
nothing  to  eat  all  day, 

LIGHTS  down  gfadwally. 

Sam  (l.  of  table').     Shall  I  fetch  some  shrimps? 

Pol.   (l.  of  table).     No;  what  made  you  think  of  shrimps? 

Sam.  They're  a  relish,  and  consoling — at  least  I  always  find 
'em  so.  ( Goes  up  and  pulls  dorvn  blind  to  window  in  back 
flat. ) 

Pol.  I  won't  ask  you,  Major,  to  take  tea  with  us,  you're  too 
grand. 

Haw.    [placing  hat  on piatw).     Not  at  all;   I  shall  be  most    . 
happy.     {Aside.)     'Pon  my  word,  these  are  a  very  good  sort  \J 

of  people.     I'd  no  idea {Sits  r.  of  table,  Polly  and 

Sam,  l.) 

Pol,     Sam,  light  the  gas. 

Sam.  No,  don't  light  up ;  I  like  this  sort  of  dusk.  It's  un- 
businesslike but  pleasant.      {Puts  his  arm  round  her  waist.) 

Pol.   {making  tea).     Sugar,  Sam? 

Sam  {aside).     Look  in  the  cup. 

Pol.  {to  Hawtree,  ha?iding  cup).  If  you  want  sweetening, 
sugar  yourself — we've  got  no  milk.  It'll  be  here  directly — it's 
just  his  time. 

Voice  {outside  and  rattle  of  milk  pails).     Milk-oow  ! 

Pol.  There  he  is.  {Knock  at  door,  r.  3  e.)  Oh,  I  know, 
I  owe  him  fourpence.  {Feels  her  pockets — knock  again  louder.) 
He's  very  impatient.     Come  in. 

Enter  George,  r,  3  e.,  his  face  bronzed  and  in  full  health  ; 
he  has  a  ?nilk  can  in  his  hand,  which  he  carries  to  upper 
end  of  table.  Polly  is  in  the  act  of  raising  her  teacup  to 
her  lips  ;  pauses  luith  it  half -tv ay  there,  raises  her  eyes 
slowly  and  sees  George.  Stares  at  hitn  thitiking  Jwn  a 
ghost,  slowly  puts  cup  back  on  table  xvithout  taking  her 
eyes  from  George' s/a'^:^,  and  slowly  slides  under  the  table. 
Sam  is  eating  his  bread  and  butter,  noting  nothing  until 
Polly  slips  under  the  table.  He  looks  up  in  surprise, 
gasps,  chokes,  and  terrified,  dives  under  table  after  Polly. 
Hawtree,  marking  Sam's  fixed  stare  as  he  disappears, 
turns  his  chair  and  looks.  Remains  fixed  a  moment. 
Picture. 


so  CASTE 

Geo.  (^quietly).  A  fella  hung  this  on  the  railings,  so  I 
thought  I'd  bring  it  in.  (Places  can  on  table.')  What's  the 
matter  with  you  all  ? 

Haw.  (rising).     George  ! 

Geo.  (l.  c).  Haw  tree  !  you  here?  (They  shake  hands 
vigorously.) 

Pol.   (peeping  out).     0-o-o-o-oh  !    The  ghost!    The  ghost! 

Sam  (under  table).  It  shan't  hurt  you,  Polly.  Perhaps  it's 
only  indigestion. 

Haw.   (r.  c).     Then  you're  not  dead? 

Geo.     Dead  I  no  !     Where's  my  wife? 

Haw.     You  were  reported  killed. 

Geo.     It  wasn't  true  ! 

Haw.     Alive,  my  old  friend,  alive  ! 

Geo.  And  well.  (Shakes  hands  again.)  Landed  this 
morning.     Where's  my  wife?     (Looks  about.) 

Sam  (tvho  has  popped  his  head  from  under  table-cloth).  He 
isn't  dead.  Poll,  he's  alive  !     (Pause  ;  comes  out.) 

Pol.  (crawling  out  from  under  table  aided  by  Sam).  Alive  ! 
My  dear  George  !  Oh,  my  dear  brother  !  (Doivn  L.,  looks 
at  him  intently.)  Alive  !  (Hysterically,  goes  to  him.)  Oh, 
my  dear,  dear,  dear  brother  !  (In  his  arms.)  How  could 
you  go  and  do  so  ? 

(Sam  down  l.     GeO'RG^  places  Polly  in  his  arms.) 

Geo.   (c).     Where's  Esther? 

Haw.   (r.).     Here — in  this  house. 

Geo.     Here!     Doesn't  she  know  I'm  back? 

Pol.   (l.  c).     No!  how  should  she? 

Geo.   (to  Hawtree).     Didn't  you  get  my  telegram? 

Haw.     No.     Where  from  ? 

Geo.     Southampton.     I  sent  it  to  the  club. 

Haw.  (crossitig  behind  to  fireplace,  L.).  I  haven't  been 
there  these  three  days. 

Pol.  (gushingly).  Oh,  my  dear,  dear,  dear,  dead  and  gone, 
come  back  all  alive  brother  George  !  (Falls  into  his  arms 
at  C.) 

(G'EO'B.G^  passes  her  down  to  R.  c.) 

Sam  (crossing  c).     Glad  to  see  you,  sir. 
Geo.     Thank  you,  Gerridge.     [Shakes   hands.)     Same  to 
you.     But  Esther  ! 

(Sam  down  r.  c,  to  Polly.) 


CASTE  51 

Pol.  {back  to  audience  and  kerchief  to  her  eyes).  She's 
asleep  in  her  room.  (George  is  going  r.  3  e.  Polly  stops 
him.)     You  mustn't  see  her. 

Geo.     Not  see  her  after  this  long  absence  !     Why  not  ? 

Haw.  She's  so  ill  to-day ;  she  has  been  greatly  excited. 
The  news  of  your  death,  which  we  all  mourned,  has  shaken  her 
terribly. 

Geo.     Poor  girl !  poor  girl ! 

Pol.  Oh  !  we  all  cried  so  when  you  died  {crying),  and  now 
you're  alive  again  I  want  to  cry  ever  so  much  more.     {Cries.) 

Haw.     We  must  break  the  news  to  her  by  degrees. 

Sam.  If  we  turn  the  tap  on  its  full  pressure  she'll  explode. 
{Goes  up.) 

Geo.  To  return  and  not  to  be  able  to  see  her,  to  love  her, 
to  kiss  her  !     {Stamps.) 

Pol.     Hush  ! 

Geo.     I  forgot,  I  should  wake  her  ! 

Pol.  {jviping  her  eyes).  More  than  that — you'll  wake  the 
baby. 

Geo.  {wheeling  about,  astonished).     Baby!     What  baby? 

Pol.     Yours. 

Geo.     Mine ! 

Pol.  Yes,  yours  and  Esther's.  Why,  didn't  you  know 
there  was  a  baby  ?     La,  the  ignorance  of  these  men  ! 

Haw,     Yes,  George,  you're  a  father. 

Geo.     Why  wasn't  I  told  this?     Why  didn't  you  write? 

Pol.     How  could  we  when  you  were  dead  ? 

Sam.     And  hadn't  left  your  address. 

Geo.  If  I  can't  see  Esther  I  will  see  the  child.  The  sight 
of  me  won't  be  too  much  for  its  nerves.     Where  is  it? 

Pol.  Sleeping  in  its  mother's  arms.  (George  goes  to  door 
R.  3  E. ;  they  stop  him,  Polly  on  r.,  Sam  on  L.,  and  bring  him 
down  c.  again.)     Please  not !     Please  not ! 

Geo.     I  must !     I  will  ! 

Pol.  It  might  kill  her,  and  you  wouldn't  like  to  do  that. 
I'll  fetch  the  baby,  but  oh,  please  don't  make  a  noise. 

Exit,  R.  3  E. 

Geo.   (c).     My  baby,  my  ba It's  a  dream.     You've 

seen  it.      What's  it  like? 

Sam  (r.).  Oh,  it's  like  a — like  a  sort  of— infant,  white  and 
milky,  and  all  that. 


52  CASTE 

Enter  Polly,  r.  3  e.,  with  baby  wrapped  in  shawl ;  George 
meets  Polly,  c,  ///  stage,  and  they  cotne  doiv/i  together. 

Pol.  (r.  c).  Gently,  gently,  take  care.  {Gives  child  to 
George.)     Esther  will  hardly  have  it  touched. 

Geo.   (l.  c.).     But  I'm  its  father. 

Pol.     That  don't  matter.     She's  very  particular. 

Geo.     Boy  or  girl  ? 

Pol.     Guess. 

Geo.  Boy  ?  (Polly  nods ;  George  enraptured.)  What's 
its  name  ? 

Pol.     Guess. 

Geo.  George?  {^oiAn  nods.)  Eustace?  (yoixn  fiods.) 
Fairfax?     Algernon?     {Yo\xn  nods ;  pause.)     My  names. 

Sam  (^coming  up  behind  Polly  at  r.  to  look  on).  There 
don't  seem  room  enough  in  him,  sir,  to  hold  so  many  names, 
do  there  ? 

(Hawtree  comes  up  behind  George,  on  l.) 

Geo.  {to  baby).  To  come  back  all  the  way  from  India  to 
find  that  I'm  dead,  and  that  you're  alive  !  To  find  my  wife  a 
widow  with  a  new  love,  aged — how  old  are  you  ?  I'll  buy  you 
a  pony  to-morrow,  my  brave  little  boy.     What's  his  weight  ? 

I  should  say  two  pound  nothing.     You  are  a  surprise,  my 

[Affected ;  touches  him.)     Take  him  away,  Polly,  for  fear  I 
should  bend  him. 

(Polly  takes  child  and  places  it  in  cradle.) 

Haw.  (crossing  to  r.  and  sitting  at  piano  ;  Sam  takes  his 
place).     But  tell  us  how  it  is  you're  back,  how  you  escaped. 

Geo.  (r.  c.,  coming  down).  Too  long  a  story  just  now,  by 
and  by.  Tell  me  all  about  it.  (Polly  gives  him  chair,  r.  c., 
and  returns  to  table,  L.)     How  is  it  Esther's  living  here  ? 

Pol.  (l.  of  table ;  after  a  pause).  She  came  back  here 
after  the  child  was  born,  and  the  furniture  was  sold  up. 

Geo.  {sitting).     Sold  up  !     What  furniture  ? 

Pol.     That  you  bought  for  her. 

Haw.  It  couldn't  be  helped,  George;  Mrs.  D'AIroy  was 
so  poor. 

Geo.  Poor  !  but  I  left  her  six  hundred  pounds  to  put  in 
the  bank. 

Haw.  We  must  tell  you;  she  gave  it  to  her  father,  who 
banked  it  in  his  own  name. 


CASTE  53 

Sam.     And  lost  it  in  betting )  every  copper. 

Geo.     Then  she's  been  in  want  ? 

Pol.     No,  not  in  want  \  friends  lent  her  money. 

Geo.  What  friends?  {Pause;  to  Hawtree,  wJw  rises 
embarrassed?)     You  ? 

Pol.     Yes. 

Geo.  (rising  and  shaking  Hawtree' s  hatid).  Thank  you, 
old  fella. 

(Hawtree  goes  up.') 

Sam  (aside).  Who'd  ha'  thought  that  long  swell  had  it  in 
him  !     He  never  mentioned  it.  i 

Geo.     So  papa  Eccles  had  the  money  ? 

Sam.     And  blowed  it. 

Pol.  {pleadingly,  both  hands  on  end  of  table).  You  see 
father  was  very  unlucky  on  the  race  course.  He  told  us  that 
if  it  hadn't  been  that  all  his  calculations  were  upset  by  a  horse 
winning  that  had  no  business  to,  he  should  have  made  all  our 
fortunes.  Father's  been  unlucky,  and  he  gets  tipsy  at  times, 
but  he's  a  very  clever  man,  if  you  only  give  him  scope  enough. 

Sam  (aside).     I'd  give  him  scope  enough  ! 

Geo.     Where  is  he  now  ? 

Sam.     Public-house. 

Geo.     And  how  is  he  ? 

Sam.     Drunk !  / 

Geo.   (rising,  going  up;  to  Hawtree).     You  were  right.  ^ 
There  is  something  in   Caste.     {Aloud.)     But  tell   us  about 
it.     {Down  c.) 

Pol.  Well,  you  know  you  went  away,  and  then  the  baby 
was  born.  Oh  !  he  was  such  a  sweet  little  thing — just  like — 
your  eyes 

Geo.     Cut  that. 

Pol.  Well,  baby  came,  and  when  baby  was  six  days  old 
your  letter  came,  Major.  {To  Hawtree.)  I  saw  it  was  from 
India,  and  that  it  wasn't  in  your  hand.  (To  George.)  I 
guessed  what  was  inside  it,  so  I  opened  it  unknown  to  her,  and 
I  read  there  of  your  capture  and  death.  I  daren't  tell  her.  I 
went  to  father  to  ask  his  advice,  but  he  was  too  tipsy  to  under- 
stand me.  Sam  fetched  the  doctor.  He  told  us  that  the 
news  would  kill  her.  When  she  woke  up  she  said  she  had 
dreamt  there  was  a  letter  from  you.  I  told  her  no,  and  day 
after  day  she  asked  for  a  letter.  So  the  doctor  advised  us  to 
write  one  as  if  it  came  from  you.     So  we  did,  Sam  and  I,  and 


54  CASTE 

the  doctor  told  her — told  Esther,  I  mean — that  her  eyes  were 
bad  and  she  mustn't  read,  and  we  read  our  letter  to  her,  didn't 
we,  Sam?  But  bless  you,  she  always  knew  it  hadn't  come 
from  you.     At  last  when  she  was  stronger  we  told  her  all. 

Geo.   {after  a  pause).     How  did  she  take  it  ? 

Pol.  She  pressed  the  baby  in  her  arms  and  turned  her  face 
to  the  wall.  {A  pause  ;  George  sits  r.  c.)  Well,  to  make  a 
long  story  short,  when  she  got  up  she  found  that  father  had 
lost  all  her  money  you  left  her.  There  was  a  dreadful  scene 
between  them.  She  told  him  he  had  robbed  her  and  her 
child,  and  father  left  the  house  and  swore  he'd  never  come 
back  again. 

Sam.     Don't  be  alarmed.     He  did  come  back. 

Pol.  Oh,  yes.  He  was  too  good-hearted  to  stop  away 
from  his  children  long.  He  has  his  faults,  but  his  good  points, 
when  you  find  them,  are  wonderful. 

Sam  {aside).     Yes,  when  you  do  find  them. 

Pol.     So  she  had  to  come  back  here  to  us,  and  that's  all. 

Geo.     Why  didn't  she  write  to  my  mother  ? 

Pol.  Father  wanted  her,  but  she  was  too  proud.  She  said 
she'd  die  first. 

Geo.  {rising ;  paces  up  to  Hawtree).  There's  a  woman  ! 
Caste's  all  humbug  !  {Paces  excitedly  down  c.  ;  sees  stvord 
over  mantelpiece.)  That's  my  sword  and  a  map  of  India — and 
that's  the  piano  I  bought  her.     I'll  swear  to  the  silk  ! 

Pol.     Yes,  that  was  bought  in  at  the  sale. 

Geo.  {to  Hawtree).     Thank  you,  old  fellow. 

Haw.     Not  by  me.     1  was  in  India  at  the  time. 

Geo.     By  whom,  then  ? 

Pol.  By  Sam.  (Sam  zvinks  to  her  to  discontinue.')  I  shall. 
He  knew  Esther  was  breaking  her  heart  about  any  one  else 
having  it,  so  he  took  the  money  he'd  saved  up  for  our  wed- 
ding, and  we're  going  to  be  married  now,  ain't  we,  Sam? 

Sam  {coming  l.  c.  to  Polly).  And  hope  by  a  constant  at- 
tention to  business  to  merit 

(Polly  pushes  him  a^cjay.) 

Pol,  She's  never  touched  the  piano  since  you  died ;  but  if 
I  don't  play  to-night  may  I  die  an  old  maid.  {Goes  up  and 
clears  table  ;  Hawtree  returns  down  r.,  eyeing  Sam.) 

(George  crosses  to  Sam  afid  shakes  his  hand,  then  goes  up 
stage,  pulls  up  blind  and  looks  i?ito  street ;  Sam  finishes 
tea.) 


CASTE  55 

Haw.  {aside).  Who'd  have  thought  that  little  cad  had  it 
in  him  !    He  never  mentioned  it.    {Aloud.)    Apropos,  George, 

your  mother.    I'll  go  to  the  square,  and  tgU  her  of {Takes 

hat  from  pia?io.) 

Geo.  (c).     Is  she  in  town  ? 

Haw.     Yes.     Will  you  come  with  me  ? 

Geo.     And  leave  my  wife  !     And  such  a  wife  ! 

Haw.  I'll  go  at  once,  I  shall  catch  her  before  dinner. 
Good-bye,  old  fellow;  seeing  you  back  again  alive,  and  well, 

makes  me  feel  quite — that  I  quite  feel {Shakes  George's  \/ 

hand,  goes  to  door  R.,  then  crosses  to  L.  to  Sam.)     Mr.  Ger- 
ridge,  I  fear  I  have  often  made  myself  very  offensive  to  you.  1 

Sam.     Well,  sir,  you  have.  ^ 

Haw.  I  feared  so ;  I  didn't  know  you  then ;  I  beg  your 
pardon ;  let  me  ask  you  to  shake  hands,  forgive  me  and  forget 
it.     {Offers  his  hafid.) 

Sam  {taking  it).     Say  no  more,  sir,  and  if  ever  I've  made       I 
myself  disagreeable  to  you,  I  ask  your  pardon,  forget  it  and    v 
forgive  me.     {They  shake  hands  wartnly.)     And  when  you 
marry  that  young  lady  as  I  know  you're  engaged  to,  if  you 

should  furnish  a  house  and  require  anything  in  my  way 

{Brings  out  circular  ;  Polly  comes  down  l.  ,  and  pushes  him 
away  ;  he  puts  circular  in  his  pocket  and  stands  before  fire.) 

Haw.  {up  R.).  Good-bye,  George,  for  the  present.  Bye, 
Polly.  {Resumes  his  Pall  Mall  manner  as  he  goes  out.)  I'm 
off  to  the  square. 

Exit,  R.  3  E. 

Geo.     But  Esther ! 

Pol.  {finishing  at  table).     I'll  tell  her  all  about  it. 

Geo.     How  ? 

Pol.  I  don't  know ;  but  it  will  come.  Providence  will 
send  it  to  me  as  it  has  sent  you,  my  dear  brother.  You  must 
go.  {Crosses  c.)  Esther  will  be  getting  up  directly.  {Pushes 
him  up  to  door  R.  3  E. ;  George  edges  down  to  r.  i  e.  and  peers 
through  keyhole.)  It's  no  use  looking  there;  it's  dark  !  [Pushes 
him  up  stage.) 

Geo.  {at  door).    It  isn't  often  a  man  can  see  his  own  widow. 

Pol.  And  it  isn't  often  that  he  wants  to.  Now  go  away. 
{Pushes  him  off. ) 

Geo.  {coming  back).     I  shall  stop  outside. 

READY  lights. 


56  CASTE 

Sam.  And  I'll  whistle  for  you  when  you  may  come  in. 
{^Crosses  C.) 

Pol.     Now  ! 

Geo.  Oh  !  my  Esther !  When  you  know  I'm  alive  I'll 
marry  you  all  over  again,  and  have  a  second  honeymoon  ! 

{They  force  him  off,  R.  3  e.) 

Pol.  {coining  douni).  Now,  Sam,  light  the  gas.  I'm  going 
to  wake  her  up.  Oh,  my  darling,  if  I  dare  tell  you.  (  Whis- 
pers.) He's  come  back  !  He's  come  back  !  He's  come 
back !  Alive !  Alive !  Alive !  Sam,  kiss  me !  {Kisses 
Sam  and  goes  off,  R.  i  e.) 

Sam  {dancing  shutter  dance).  I'm  glad  the  swells  are  gone ; 
now  I  can  open  my  safety  valve  and  let  my  feelings  escape. 
{Lights  gas.) 

LIGHTS  full  on. 

To  think  of  his  coming  back  alive  from  India,  just  as  I'm 
going  to  open  my  shop.  {Lights  candles.)  Perhaps  he'll  get 
me  the  patronage  of  the  Royal  Family.  It'd  look  stunning  over 
the  door  with  a  lion  and  a  unicorn  a-standing  on  their  hind  legs 
doing  nothing  furiously  with  a  lozenge  between  them.  {Sits  at 
table,  L.)  Poor  Esther,  to  think  of  my  knowing  her  when  she 
was  in  the  ballet  line,  then  when  she  was  in  the  honorable  line, 
then  a  mother.  Then  a  widow  and  in  the  ballet  line  again. 
And  him  to  come  back  {growing  affected),  and  find  a  baby  with 
all  his  furniture  and  fittings  ready  for  immediate  use.  And  the 
poor  thing  lying  asleep  with  her  eyelids  hot  and  swollen — not 
knowing  that  that  great,  big,  heavy,  hulking,  overgrown  dra- 
goon is  prowling  outside  ready  to  fly  at  her  lips,  and  strangle 

her  in  his  strong,  loving  arms.     It — it — it {Breaks  down 

and  sobs  7vith  his  head  upon  the  table.) 

Enter  Polly,  r.  i  e.,  with  a  light  colored  dress  on. 

Pol.     Why,  Sam,  what's  the  matter? 

Sam  {rising  and  crossing  r.).  The  water's  got  into  my 
meter. 

Pol.     Hush  ! 

Enter  Esther,  r.  i    e.  ;    they   stop  suddenly ;  Polly  dotvn 

stage. 

Sam  {up  stage,  singing  and  dancing).     Tiddy-ti-tum-lo  ! 


CASTE  57 

Est.  {sitting  doivn  near  fire  L.  of  head  of  table,  taking  up 
costume  and  beginning  to  work  ;  Polly  going  to  her  and  kiss- 
ing her  between  laughing  and  crying~).  Sam,  you  seem  in  high 
spirits  to-night. 

Sam  {crossing  to  L.).  Yes  ;  you  see  Polly  and  I  are  going 
to  be  married,  and — and  hope  by  bestowing  a  favor  to  merit,  to 
continuance,  attention,  by  deserving  a  merit 

Pol.  {kissing  Esther  two  or  three  ti?nes,  then  pushing  ^ku 
down  stage  to  L.).  What  are  you  talking  about?  {Comes 
down  and  sits  on  music  stool,  R.) 

Sam.     I  don't  know.     I'm  off  my  burner. 

Est.  What's  the  matter  with  you  to-night,  dear?  {To 
Polly.)     I  can  see  something  in  your  eye. 

Sam.     It's  the  new  furniture. 

Pol.  {crossing  hurriedly  and  kissing  Esther  again;  taking 
waist  of  dress  and  sitting  L.  of  table  to  help  on  it^.  It  was  a 
pretty  dress  when  it  was  new ;  not  unlike  the  one  Mdlle. 
Delphine  used  to  wear.     {Suddenly  claps  her  ha/ids.')     Oh  ! 

Est.     What's  the  matter? 

Pol.  a  needle  !  {Aside  to  Sam,  zaho  comes  to  her,  l.) 
I've  got  it. 

Sam  {leaning  over  her').     The  needle  in  your  finger  ? 

Pol.     No,  an  idea  in  my  head. 

Sam  {still  looking  at  finger).     Does  it  hurt  ? 

Pol.  {risi?ig,  crossing  c).  Stupid!  (Sam  crosses  to  v.. ; 
aloud.)     Do  you  recollect  Mdlle.  Delphine,  Esther? 

Est.     Yes. 

Pol.  Do  you  recollect  her  in  that  ballet  that  old  Herr  Grif- 
fenhaagen  arranged — "Jeanne  la  FoUe,  or  the  Return  of  the 
Soldier  "  ? 

(Sam  sits  r.,  on  nmsic  stool.) 

Est.     Yes.     Will  you  do  the  fresh  hem  ? 

Pol.  What's  the  use?  Let  me  see — how  did  it  go? 
(Business  of  indicating  the  details  of  an  imaginary  stage.) 
How  well  I  remember  the  scene.  The  cottage  that  side,  the 
bridge  at  the  back.  La  !  La  1  La  !  Ballet  of  villagers  and 
the  entrance  of  Delphine  as  Jeanne  the  bride.  {Sings  and 
pantomimes.)  Then  the  entrance  of  Claude  the  bridegroom. 
Then  there  was  the  procession  to  church.  The  march  of  the 
soldiers  over  the  bridge.  (Sings  and  pantomimes.)  Arrest  of 
Chuule,  who  is  drawn  for  the  conscription  {business,  and 
Esther  looks  dreamily),  and  is  torn  from  the  arms  of  his  bride 


58  CASTE 

at  the  church  porch.  Omnes  broken-hearted  !  This  is  Omnes 
broken-hearted.      (^Pantominies.') 

Est.     Polly,  I  don't  like  this ;  it  brings  back  memories. 

Pol.  {s^oing  to  table  and  leaning  her  hands  oii  it  looking 
over  at  Esther).  Oh !  fuss  about  memories.  One  can't 
mourn  forever.  (Esther  surprised.)  Everything  in  this 
world  isn't  sad.  There's  bad  news,  and — and  there's  good 
news  sometimes  when  we  least  expect  it. 

Est.     Ah  !     Not  for  me. 

Pol.  Why  not?  {Pause;  crosses  to  c.)  Ding,  ling,  ling 
a  ling. 

Sam.     What's  that  ? 

Pol.  Why,  the  second  act,  you  know — second  act,  winter. 
{Places  Sam  at  r.)  The  village  cross — this  is  the  village  cross. 
Entrance  of  Jeanne — now  called  Jeanne  la  Folle,  because  she 
has  gone  mad.  This  is  Jeanne  gone  mad.  (Patitomimes .^ 
Gone  mad  on  account  of  the  supposed  loss  of  her  husband. 

Sam.     The  supposed  loss  ? 

Pol.     The  supposed  loss. 

Est.   [dropping  costume').     Polly  ! 

Sam.     Mind ! 

Pol.  Mustn't  stop  now  ;  go  on.  Entrance  of  Claude,  who 
isn't  dead,  in  a  captain's  uniform — a  cloak  over  his  shoulder. 
Don't  you  recollect  the  ballet  ?  Jeanne  is  mad  and  can't  rec- 
ognize her  husband,  and  don't  till  he  shows  her  the  ribbon  she 
gave  him  when  they  were  betrothed.  Here,  I'll  do  it.  I  want 
a  bit  of  ribbon.  {Looks  about.)  Sam,  have  you  got  a  bit  of 
ribbon?  {Casts  eyes  on  sword  knot  over  fireplace.)  Ah! 
reach  me  that  crape  sword  knot,  that  will  do.  ( Crosses  r.  ; 
Sam  goes  up  l.  c.) 

Est.     Touch  that !     {Rises  and  comes  down  l.  c.) 

Pol.     Why  not  ?     It's  no  use  now. 

Est.  (c).  You  have  heard  of  George  !  I  know  you  have ! 
I  see  it  in  your  eyes  !  You  may  tell  me  !  I  can  bear  it !  I 
can,  indeed  ! — indeed  I  can  !     Tell  me  !     He  is  not  dead  ! 

Pol.     No ! 

Est.  {whispering).     Thank  heaven  !     Are  you  sure? 

Pol.     Quite. 

Est.  You've  seen  him  !  I  see  you  have  !  I  know  it !  I 
feel  it  !  I  had  a  bright  and  happy  dream  of  him — I  saw  him 
as  I  slept.  Oh  !  let  me  know  if  he  is  near  !  {Paces  stage,  l. 
to  v..)  Give  me  some  sign,  some  sound — (Po'Lly  opens  piano) 
some  token  of  his  life  and  presence. 


CASTE  59 

(Polly  signals  to  Sam  ;  Voll\  plays  piano  on  the  treble  only  ; 
Sam  goes  to  r.  3  e.) 

Est.  (Jn  an  ecstasy).  Oh,  my  husband  !  Come  to  me,  for 
I  know  thai  you  are  near !  Let  me  feel  your  arms  clasp  round 
me  !  Do  not  fear  for  me  !  I  can  bear  the  sight  of  you  !  It 
will  not  kill  me  !  George — love — husband — come  !  Oh, 
come  to  me  !  {During  this  George  has  appeared  at  k.  d., 
and  running  to  Esther  enfolds  her  in  his  embrace.  Polly 
plays  the  bass  as  rue  II  as  treble  of  the  air  forte,  then  fortis- 
simo ;  she  then  plays  at  ratidom,  endeavoring  to  hide  her  tears  ; 
at  last  she  strikes  piano  wildly,  and  goes  off  into  a  fit  of  hys- 
terical laughter,  to  the  alarm  of  Sam,  zvho  places  her  gently  on 
the  floor.     George  and  Esther  go  up  c.  to  cradle.^ 

Sam.     Polly  !     Polly  !  my  darling  ! 

(Polly  seizes  Sam  by  the  hair  and  shakes  him  violently.') 

PoL.     Sam,  Sam,  I'm  going  mad  ! 

Est.     To  see  you  here  again,  to  feel  your  warm  breath  upon 
my  cheek  !     Is  it  real ?     Am  I  not  dreaming?     [Comes  down.) 
Sam  (l.,  rubbing  his  head).     No,  it's  real, 

(Polly  sits  at  piano,  Sam  beside  her.) 

Est.  {placing  chair  c,  and  kneeling  on  his  left).  But  tell 
us,  tell  us,  do,  darling,  how  you  escaped. 

Geo.  It's  a  long  story,  but  I'll  condense  it.  I  was  riding 
out  and  suddenly  found  myself  surrounded  and  taken  prisoner. 
One  of  the  troop  that  took  me  was  a  fella  who  had  been  my 
servant,  and  to  whom  I  had  done  some  little  kindness;  he 
helped  me  to  escape  and  hid  me  in  a  sort  of  cave,  and  for  a 
long  time  used  to  bring  me  food.  Unfortunately,  he  was  or- 
dered away,  so  he  brought  another  Sepoy  to  look  after  me.  I 
felt  from  the  first  this  man  meant  to  betray  me,  and  I  watched 
him  like  a  lynx  during  the  one  day  he  was  with  me.  As  even- 
ing drew  on  a  Sepoy  picket  was  passing ;  I  could  tell  by  the 
look  in  the  fella's  eyes  he  meant  to  call  out  as  soon  as  they  were 
near  enough,  so  I  seized  him  by  the  throat  and  shook  the  life 
out  of  him. 

Est.     You  strangled  him  ? 

Geo,     Yes. 

Est.     Killed  him  dead  ? 

Geo.     He  didn't  get  up  again. 

Pol.  {to  Sam).     You  never  go  and  kill  Sepoys  ! 


6o  CASTE 

Sam.     I  pay  rates  and  taxes. 

Geo.  The  day  after  Havelock  and  his  Scotchmen  marched 
through  the  village,  and  I  turned  out  to  meet  them.  I  was  too 
done  up  to  join,  so  I  was  sent  straight  on  to  Calcutta.  I  got 
leave,  took  a  berth  on  the  P.  and  O.  boat — the  passage  restored 
me.  I  landed  this  morning,  came  on  here  and  brought  in  the 
milk.     {Embraces  Esther,  and  rises. ^ 

Enter  ihe  Marquise,  r.  3  e.  ;  she  rushes  to  embrace  George,  c. 

Mar.     My  dear  boy  !     My  dear,  dear  boy  ! 

Pol.  {seated  R.).  Why,  see,  she's  crying.  She's  glad  to 
see  Iiim  alive  and  back.     {^Rises.') 

Sam  (^profoundly).  There's  always  something  good  in 
women,  even  when  they're  ladies.  (Polly  and  he  cross  to 
L. ;  Polly /^/j-  dress  in  box  and  goes  to  cradle.) 

Mar.  (crossing  to  Esther,  l.  c).  My  dear  daughter,  we 
must  forget  our  little  differences.  (Kisses  her.)  Won't  you  ? 
How  history  repeats  itself !  You  will  find  a  similar  and  as  un- 
expected a  return  mentioned  by  Froissart  in  the  chapter  that 
treats  of  Philip  Dartneli. 

Geo.     Yes,  mother.     I  remember.     (^Kisses  her.) 

Mar.  {to  George,  aside).  We'll  take  her  abroad  and  make 
a  lady  of  her. 

Geo.  Can't,  mamma.  She's  ready  made.  Nature  has  done 
it  to  our  hands. 

Mar.  {aside  to  George).  But  I  won't  have  the  man  who 
smells  of  putty,  nor  the  man  who  smells  of  beer.  (Goes  up  to 
cradle  with  Esther.) 

Enter  Hawtree,  very  pale. 

Haw.  (r.  c).     George  !     Oh,  the  Marchioness  is  here. 

Geo.   (l.  c).     What's  the  matter? 

Haw.  Oh,  nothing.  Yes,  there  is.  I  don't  mind  telling 
you.  Why,  Pve  been  thrown.  I  called  at  my  chambers  as  I 
came  along  and  found  this.     (Gives  George  a  note.) 

Geo.  From  the  Countess,  Lady  Florence,  mother.  (Reads.) 
"  Dear  Major  Hawtree, — I  hasten  to  inform  you  that  my 
daughter,  Florence,  is  about  to  enter  upon  an  alliance  with 
Lord  Saxeby,  the  eldest  son  of  the  Marquis  of  Loamshire. 
Under  these  circumstances  should  you  think  fit  to  call  here 

again   I  feel   assured "     Well,  perhaps  it's   for  the  best. 

(Returns  letter.)  Caste,  you  know.  Caste,  and  a  marquis  is 
a  bigger  swell  than  a  major. 


CASTE  6l 

Haw.  (on  music  stool,  k.).  Best  to  marry  in  your  own  rank 
of  life. 

Geo.  (c).  Yes.  If  you  can  find  M^  girl.  But  if  ever  you 
find  the  girl  marry  her.  As  to  her  station,  "Kind  hearts  are 
more  than  coronets,  and  simple  faith  than  Norman  blood." 

Haw.  Yaas.  But  a  gentleman  should  hardly  ally  himself 
to  a  nobody. 

Geo.  My  dear  fellow,  nobody's  a  mistake.  He  don't  exist. 
Nobody's  nobody.      Everybody's  somebody. 

Haw.     Yes.     But  still,  Caste 

Geo.  Oh,  Caste's  all  right.  Caste  is  a  good  thing  if  it's 
not  carried  too  far.  It  shuts  the  door  on  the  pretentious  and 
the  vulgar,  but  it  should  open  the  door  very  wide  for  excep- 
tional merit.  Let  brains  break  through  its  barriers,  and  what 
brains  can  break  through  love  may  leap  over. 

Haw.  Why,  George,  you're  quite  inspired  ;  quite  an  orator. 
What  makes  you  so  brilliant?  your  captivity,  the  voyage? 
what  then  ? 

Geo.     I'm  in  love  with  my  wife  ! 

Enter  Eccles,  r.  3  e.,  drunk,  a  bottle  of  gin  in  his  hand. 

Ecc.  {crossing  to  head  of  table  up  L.).  Bless  this  happy 
company.  Polly,  my  love,  fetch  some  wine  glasses — a  tumbler 
will  do  for  me.  Let  me  drink  a  toast.  Mr.  Chairman,  ladies 
and  gentlemen,  I  propose  the  'elth  of  our  newly  returned  war- 
rior, my  son  (Marquise  shivers),  the  Right  Honorable  George 
D'Alroy.  Get  glasses,  Polly,  and  send  for  a  bottle  of  sherry 
wine  for  my  ladyship.  My  ladyship  {crossing  to  Marquise 
round  r.  of  table),  we  old  folks  must  drink  to  wish  the  young 
ones  happy.  So  delighted  to  see  you  under  these  altered  cir- 
cum — circum — circum — Stangate — No — no — not 

Sam.     Unscrew  his  head  and  put  it  in  a  bucket ! 

Exit,  in  disgust,  door  r.  3  e. 

WARN  ctiftain. 

Haw.  {crossifig  r.  c,  aside  to  George).  I  think  I  can 
abate  this  nuisance,  at  least  I  can  remove  it.  {Crosses  c,  to 
EccLES.)  Mr.  Eccles,  don't  you  think  that  with  your  talent 
for  liquor  if  you  had  an  allowance  of  about  two  pounds  a  week 
and  went  to  Jersey,  where  spirits  are  cheap,  that  you  could 
drink  yourself  to  death  in  a  year? 


62  CASTE 

Ecc.  I  think  I  could.  I'm  sure — I'll  try.  (^Goes  up  R.  of 
table,  steadying  himself  by  it,  and  sits  in  chair  by  fire,  with  the 
bottle  of  gi7i.') 

Pol.  Yes,  dear,  we  can  see  each  other,  but  we  won't  be 
any  bother  to  you.  You  can  come  and  see  us  as  often  as  you 
like,  but  we  won't  return  the  visit. 

Est.  (aside ;  kissing  VoiA.\).  She'll  marry  a  workman  and 
live  in  a  back  shop.  I  wonder  if  she'll  be  happy?  (^Returns 
to  Marquise  at  cradle. ) 

Pol.  (tuatching  her;  aside).  And  she'll  be  a  lady  with  a 
coach  and  live  with  great  folk.      I  wonder  if  she'll  be  happy  ? 

Geo.  {coming  down  c.  laith  Esther).  Come  and  play  me 
that  air  that  used  to  ring  in  my  ears  when  I  lay  awake  night 
after  night  captive  in  the  cave.  You  know.  {He  hands 
Esther  to  piano,  she  plays  the  air.') 

RING  ctti-tain. 

Mar.   {bending  over  the  cradle  at  end,  r.).     My  grandson  ! 

(EccLES  falls  off  the  chair  in  the  last  stage  of  drunkenness, 
bottle  in  ha?id.  Hawtree,  leaning  ofi  mantelpiece  by  the 
other  side  of  fire,  looks  at  him  through  eye-glass.  Sam 
enters  and  goes  to  Pollv,  up  c,  behind  cradle,  and  pro- 
ducing zaedding  ring  from  several  papers  holds  it  up  before 
her  eyes.     Piano  till  end.) 


SLOW  CURTAIN 


POSITIONS 

Marquise  {by  cradle.) 
{Piano)    George.        Polly.     Sam.  Eccles. 

Esther.  Hawtree, 


LTPTJAKY 
TTXTTTri:^T>CTTV  OF  CALIFORNIA 


THF  IWAfilSTRATF    ^^^^^  ^^  Three  Acts.    Twelve  males,  four 
females.     Costumes,  modern  ;   scenery,  all 
interior.    Plays  two  hours  and  a  half. 

THE  NOTORIOUS  MRS.  EBBSMITH  J^.^^-^  J'^  J°y  ^f  ^ 

Light  males,  five  females. 
Costumes,  modern  ;  scenery,  all  interiors.    Plays  a  full  evening. 

THE  PROFMfiATF    ^l^y  in  Four  Acts.  Seven  males,  five  females. 
Scenery,  three  interiors,  rather  elaborate  ; 
costumes,  modern.    Plays  a  full  evening. 

THF  SCHOOI  MISTRESS    ^^^^ce  in  Three  Acts.  Klne  males,  seven 
females.  Costumes,  modern  ;  scenery, 
three  interiors.    Plays  a  full  evening. 

THE  SECOND  MRS.  TANQUERAY  ^'y  '^J'^'^l ^«f  ^y* 

*■  males,  nve  females.     Cos- 

tumes, modern  ;  scenery,  three  interiors.    Plays  a  full  evening. 

SWFFT  I  AVFNDFR    C<'™®**y  ™  Three  Acts.    Seven  males,  four 
females.    Scene,  a  single  interior;  costumes, 
modern.    Plays  a  full  evening. 

THF  TIIWFS    Comedy  in  Four  Acts.    Six  males,  seven  females. 
Scene,  a  single  interior ;  costumes,  modern.    Plays  a 
full  evening. 

THF  WFAKFR  SFX    Co"^6*^'y  '°  Tliree  Acts.    Eight  males,  eight 
females.     Costumes,  modern  ;  scenery,  two 
interiors.    Plays  a  full  evening. 

A  WIFE  WITHOUT  A  SMILE  ""T^^,  '"^^-^f  ^T\  ^'" 

males,  four  females.    Costumes, 
moder^i ;  scene,  a  single  interior.    Plays  a  full  evening. 


Sent  prepaid  on  receipt  of  price  by 

Waltn  1^»  'Bafeer  S.  Company 

No.  5  Hamilton  Place,  Boston,  Massachusetts 


f^^--,  THE  LIBRARY 

bcOpC  UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 

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